A Private War
by SimoneSez
Summary: London tells Hogan that one of his men is suspected to be a traitor... but which one?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note__: This story is inspired by the events in Season 2, Episode 1, "Hogan Gives a Birthday Party", guest-starring James Gregory as General Biedenbender. The character of Simon Knatchbull-Quimby is original._

**September 1944 – Outskirts of West London**

It was raining outside. General Gerhard Biedenbender was quite certain of that, in spite of the fact that his cell had no windows. It was _always _raining in England. The general was no longer sure why the _Führer _still insisted on invading this odious country; in the two years he had been here he had not yet found a single thing he liked about it.

His cell was about eight by eight feet, plain bare concrete on three sides, the fourth punctuated by a steel door with a high barred window facing the corridor. He seldom left it. He was offered a 'recreation period' each day of his captivity, consisting of a closely supervised stroll on the nearby fields, but seeing nothing recreational in the activity whatsoever he most often elected to remain in his cell. Detention Camp 32, they called this place. _Wormwood Scrubs. _Yes, that about said it all.

Still, it was better here than it had been in Whitehall. Immediately after his arrival he had been held there for a time, and he had been unspeakably relieved to get out of the city and all its ambient noises that were a constant reminder of where and what he was. He was in England, and he was a prisoner. He objected to that. He objected to everything that had to do with the Allies.

Most of all, he objected to Colonel Robert Hogan. Even on the nights when he could lie on his pallet in blessed silence far from the incessant clang of that infamous, contemptible bell in Westminster, he could sometimes still hear that mocking voice… "_Aren't you gonna wish me a happy birthday_?" What a cruel turn fate had taken. Hundreds of miles to the east in his own beloved Fatherland, Hogan was running a sabotage and escape operation that would boggle the keenest German military mind. Defectors and Allied fliers fled away in droves, while that idiot KommandantKlink sat behind his desk and behind that stupid smile, loudly proclaiming to anyone who would listen that there had never been a single successful escape from Stalag 13. He suspected nothing about the massive escape operation that was going on right under his boots.

Biedenbender himself had "escaped", of a fashion, from that abhorrent stalag, on the night when Hogan had kidnapped him, stolen his plane, bombed his refinery, and then had him shipped here to sit out the war in a small gray room. In a way he was almost better off here… he could no longer show his face in the Fatherland; Hogan had seen to that. His life would be worth nothing in Germany anymore, not after Hogan had carefully orchestrated it so that he himself would be blamed for the bombing of his own refinery. So here he sat, one of the most heavily-decorated officers in the _Luftwaffe_, waiting to find out what inedible bits of offal would be served to him for dinner. The English couldn't even make a decent sausage.

As anticipated, the sound of a key turning in the lock was followed by the groan of the heavy metal door as it swung open. The young lieutenant carrying his meal tray was not the usual evening porter, though. "Good evening, General."

Biedenbender didn't bother to acknowledge him, or to indicate where to place the tray. He didn't even look up from his book. It was _not _a good evening, but he always strove to give his captors not the slightest bit of satisfaction, even if it was only refusing to engage in their banal pleasantries.

This officer was not quite so easily put off as most. To Biedenbender's surprise, he pushed the cell door nearly closed, put the tray on the small table, clicked his heels together and inclined his body slightly forward in a respectful gesture. _"Oder guten Abend, Herr General_."

The accent was quite good, but Biedenbender had not come all this way to tutor some tiresome Old Etonian in his language skills. His career as a general might be over, but that didn't mean he was looking for a new line of work. He still didn't bother looking up from the page he was reading, but he did deign to reply… in English. "Your German is terrible. Get out."

The young lieutenant gave a smooth, almost sly smile. "My German, sir, is every bit as good as your own."

"Then I congratulate you, if you insist. Get out."

"May I introduce myself?"

"You may not."

"Permit me… I am Simon Knatchbull-Quimby."

Biedenbender turned another page of his book. "All right… then get out, _Simon Knatchbull-Quimby_. I don't think I can be any clearer than that."

"You misunderstand, sir."

"Do I?" he growled.

"You and I have a common enemy, sir… Colonel Robert Hogan."

Ordinarily the mere mention of that name would be enough to ruin the general's appetite as well as the rest of his evening, but in this context he found to his pleasant surprise that it actually brought a slight smile to his lips. "Indeed?" he replied in his low, gravelly voice.

"May I continue, _Herr General_?" Simon inquired with the utmost courtesy.

"Please do." Biedenbender closed the book and set it on the desk. "Yes… by all means."

oo O oo

Hundreds of miles to the east, at that very moment, Colonel Hogan was having problems of his own. LeBeau had not yet returned from a solo mission to contact Tiger and Dubois and ensure that everything was set for the Underground's plan to destroy the rail tunnel at Bärberg tomorrow night. It wasn't really time to worry about his safety… not yet. He wasn't seriously overdue, and the evening's final role call wouldn't be for another couple of hours. The mission had not been a particularly dangerous one. There was every chance that he would return any minute, safe and sound, with a report that all had gone exactly as planned. And yet, there was a grim pall hanging over Barracks Two.

It was dinnertime. And _Carter_ was cooking.

"What _is_ this?" Newkirk regarded the substance on the plate in front of him with obvious distaste, not willing to approach it any closer quite yet. Even prodding it with his spoon was out of the question until he had a bit more information.

A little more adventurous than the British corporal, Kinch tipped up one edge of his own plate just far enough to see if the meal moved, or remained in place. It clung tenaciously to the tin. "Looks like mixed vegetables in wallpaper paste."

"For your information, it's chowder," Carter informed them indignantly from his post beside the stove. LeBeau's chef's hat was balanced on his protruding ears, off-center and drooping too far forward. The hat was the least of his problems in the food preparation arena.

"Well, I'm not eatin' that," Newkirk said unequivocally.

"Suit yourself; that leaves more for the rest of us."

Hogan was also looking at the meal in front of him with misgivings. Carter _always_ tried… no matter what the task, Carter could be counted upon to give a hundred and ten percent effort. That was what made it harder to tell him when not even a hundred and ten percent was good enough… like right now. Still, he was the commanding officer here, it was his duty to lead by example. He scraped some of the so-called 'chowder' onto his spoon with some difficulty. "It looks… uh… _hearty_." That was about the best he could do by way of encouragement.

"There's an egg in it," Carter said proudly. "Herman laid one this afternoon." The moulting old hen they had recently 'liberated' from a nearby farm occasionally managed to provide them with a fresh egg or two on an irregular basis.

"Herman ain't the _only_ one around here who's laid an egg." Newkirk shoved his plate away with one decisive motion.

"I put it in the chowder 'cause I figured that'd be the fairest thing to do, with so many of us."

"The fairest thing to do would be to let LeBeau put the flea-bitten old thing on the choppin' block; that way we'd each at least get one good mouthful."

Kinch was watching Hogan, waiting to see if he would actually dare taste the spoonful he was holding a few inches in front of his lips. "Well, Colonel?"

"It's… hot." Hogan blew on it to buy himself another few seconds. "Real hot."

"Right…" his sergeant nodded, unconvinced.

"Is your next of kin on file someplace handy?" Newkirk inquired. "I mean, just in case… y'know…"

Well… bottoms up. Hogan took the bite that was waiting for him on the spoon, and swallowed. The things he had to do for the war effort…

"Well, sir?" Carter asked hopefully.

"Well, he's still breathin'," Newkirk observed.

"It's…" The colonel picked a couple of bits of eggshell off his tongue. "It's got substance, Carter…"

"It would've been better if I'd had another egg."

Hogan nodded slightly, unconvinced. "Crunchier, anyway."

Kinch pushed his own plate to one side, to join Newkirk's. "I pass."

No, there was no way he was going to be able to finish this… whatever it was. At the risk of seriously disappointing his young sous-chef, Hogan set down the spoon. "It's my fault… I asked a boy to do a man's job. I'm sorry, Carter, but I think we'd better wait for LeBeau to get back… this is a little above your head."

When Carter's face fell, it really _fell_. One could almost hear it hit the floor. "Gee…"

"Let's give it to that new guard dog that's been obeying the Germans," Kinch suggested. "That'll fix him for a while."

"Kinch, that's cruelty to animals… I'm surprised at you." Hogan tapped the gelatinous off-white mass on his plate with the tip of a finger. "Let's put it in a jar labeled 'sauce béarnaise'and leave it in Klink's pantry."

There was a round of enthusiastic approval for that idea… though not many willing to consider touching the stuff even long enough to transfer it to a jar… and in the midst of the banter the trapdoor to the tunnel entrance rose up and LeBeau appeared on the ladder. "And where have _you _been?" Newkirk started in right away, before the Frenchman could even get _bonjour _out of his mouth. "We've got Dr. Crippen servin' up our supper!" He poked an accusing finger in Carter's direction.

Ordinarily LeBeau might have come right back at him… but not when cooking was the issue. "What did he do…?" he inquired, sounding almost afraid to ask.

"He calls it 'chowder'," Hogan replied. "Uh… the jury's still out on that one."

"It may turn out to be a war crime against his own side," Kinch added.

Carter removed the chef's hat with obvious reluctance, and not a little embarrassment, and set it on the table. "Cooking's not as easy as it looks, you know..." he managed weakly.

"Why don't you go apologize to Herman for what you done to his egg?" Newkirk snapped.

"Do you have to be so hard on him?" LeBeau scolded. In answer, Newkirk simply lifted the plate with the 'chowder' adhered to it so it was a mere inch or two from the Frenchman's face, then turned it upside down. Nothing moved. "_Mon dieu…_" he groaned, turning away in revulsion.

"If we're lucky, maybe we can salvage the plates… and that's a _big _maybe."

LeBeau made a grab to gather up the ones within reach. "I'll hurry…"

oo O oo

General Biedenbender had also chosen to pass on dinner. Not because it looked unappetizing… although it certainly _did_, as usual… but because he had discovered something much more intriguing.

"Is your English as good as your German?" he inquired of Simon Knatchbull-Quimby, who was now seated, much as an invited guest would have been, on the edge of the flimsy iron bunk. The crease, however, never left the man's trousers.

"If I may infer from the fact that none of my colleagues in British Intelligence have yet commented on my diction…" the younger man smiled confidently, with what certainly sounded like an upper-class regional accent, "I would say that it is."

Biedenbender was not that much of a smiler, himself. He kept a perfectly straight face as he continued. "And how is it that you speak two languages with such perfection?"

"It's a long story, the details of which I won't bore you with now, as our time is somewhat limited. Suffice it to say that my father was British and my mother Bavarian… the best of both worlds, one might say."

"Meaning?"

"I have German allegiance, and also a fine old English name and accompanying dialect to disguise my purpose in this country." He smiled slyly. "I'm a natural double-agent, you see."

Biedenbender nodded slowly. What he'd heard so far pleased him, but he had not known this young officer anywhere near long enough to take everything he said at face value. "And how is it that you're acquainted with Colonel Robert Hogan?"

"Perhaps 'acquainted' is not the proper term. Colonel Hogan does not know me by sight, nor by my name. To him, I am 'Black Sheep', and he receives orders and information from Intelligence in London via my radio transmissions."

"For how long?"

"Six months. My original orders were to infiltrate Special Operations Executive and bide my time."

"You are waiting for…?"

"For an opportunity to strike a devastating blow to the Allied forces, _Herr General_. I believe that time has come. I believe that working together, you and I can eliminate Colonel Hogan and his operation. They are…" He paused to choose his words carefully. "Let us say, becoming rather a nuisance to the German High Command."

To say the least. This young man was certainly astute and politically-minded. No self-respecting double-agent would be willing to admit that Hogan was more than a mere nuisance; the fact was that he and his operation were a thorn in the side of the Axis and had managed to cripple countless of the Reich's most valuable initiatives over the years. "Hmmm…" was all Biedenbender was willing to add.

"I presume you concur?"

Well… realistically, what did he have to lose at this point? Knatchbull-Quimby either was what he said he was, or he was not. Either way, Biedenbender stood to lose very little at this point. What could they do to him; put him in a smaller, darker, more depressing rat-hole? Such would be difficult to come by, even in wartime. "There was a man down the corridor in a holding cell when I was imprisoned in Whitehall…" he began very slowly, choosing his words with great care. "A once-proud general of the Third Reich… yet Schmidt would scream in his sleep at night like a child."

This seemed to surprise the younger man; to his mind the general had just gone significantly off topic. "Shameful," he said anyway.

"But it was _what _he screamed that interested me… 'I'll give you Cleveland; my name is not Finnegan.'"

"I… I must admit, sir, you have me at some disadvantage. I don't quite understand what…"

"There was a man who once lived in Cleveland… a man capable of striking that kind of terror into the heart of a German warrior… a man I once met."

"And he terrified you?"

"He…" This admission still stuck in his throat. "He… _bested_ me."

Now Knatchbull-Quimby was beginning to understand… the general had not lost sight of the subject at all; the two of them were talking about exactly the same thing. "Hogan."

That name. Biedenbender immediately saw red. "If you have just one bullet in your gun and the chance to kill both Churchill and Roosevelt with the same shot, _save that bullet to use on Hogan! _He is the single most dangerous man the Allies have! They can go out and get another President, another Prime Minister; there's always another one of those waiting in the wings, they're a _pfennig_ a dozen, but there is no other Hogan!"

His sudden tirade might have startled a lesser man. Simon Knatchbull-Quimby just looked on and waited for it to subside on its own. "I believe we're going to get along very well, _Herr General. _Very well indeed."

"And what may I ask does your assignment in Special Operations have to do with me?"

"I understand that you have made Colonel Hogan somewhat of a personal project. That you know everything there is to know about him. I believe that you and I together could ensure that Hogan and his operation would cease to pose any threat to German victory. May I count on your assistance, sir?"

"You may…" Biedenbender nodded. Perhaps this old war horse was not yet out to pasture after all.

"We must attack Hogan at his most vulnerable spot. And you, better than anyone else, would know exactly how to proceed. What area of his vast operation is the place he can be most effectively attacked? Where is his security the thinnest?"

"That's quite simple, young man. Colonel Robert Hogan's most easily-exploited weakness… is his men."


	2. Chapter 2

The tin plates had been scoured with hot water and sand, and cold sandwiches had been quickly prepared by the tardy chef by way of apology for Carter's earlier misadventure. Well, it was better than nothing… and certainly better than what it had replaced. Hogan, however, wasn't completely willing to forgive and forget. "What kept you?" he asked Lebeau. "Never mind about dinner; I mean we were starting to worry about you."

"Sorry, _Colonel_. I stopped on the way back to…" Louis paused, unsure how to word it. "Well…"

"To _what_?" Hogan pressed. "Your job was to contact DuBois to make sure his group's all set for the railway tunnel job tomorrow night and then come straight back here."

"I _did… _more or less. DuBois and the others are ready. But I did make an… extra stop." His hesitation meant only one thing: there was more to this story than he was willing to admit without a bit of a struggle.

"_English, _LeBeau… whatever you're speaking, I don't understand you."

"Well… I was visiting a sick friend."

"How many friends have _you _got in Germany?" Kinch wanted to know.

"Seven." Before anyone could challenge him on that, LeBeau rushed to continue. "It's Heidi… she had her puppies this morning and I stopped in the kennel to look in on her. I guess it took longer than I thought."

Visiting a guard dog. Hogan couldn't believe it. No, wait… he could. LeBeau was soft on the resident German shepherd dogs who were supposed to be guarding the prisoners, and they all returned his affection. "Puppies…" he sighed, trying hard not to roll his eyes.

Carter's glum face suddenly brightened considerably. "_Puppies? _Oh, _boy!_"

"So you brought her some flowers and a box of candy?" Kinch kidded.

"You should see what the _Boche_ are feeding her; it's worse than what they expect _us _to eat! I brought her a veal cutlet from the butcher in town."

Newkirk nearly fell off his chair. "We're eatin' dry cheese on stale pumpernickel and the ruddy dog's eatin' veal cutlet? Whose side are you on?"

"She needs to get her strength back!" LeBeau tugged at the unbuttoned front of Newkirk's uniform tunic. "And you don't look like _you've_ missed any meals lately, _mon vieux_!"

"Now, listen here…"

The potential dust-up was interrupted when Schultz entered, as was his habit, without knocking. This time, though, he displayed none of his usual enthusiasm for the announcement he was about to make. "Everybody outside for roll call," he said flatly, seeming not to particularly care if they heard and obeyed him or not.

"Speaking of people who haven't lost any weight…" Kinch couldn't resist.

Schultz's eyes narrowed. "Who told you?"

"Told us what?"

The stocky sergeant sighed and his shoulders slipped down a good several inches. They were, after all, quite heavy. "I had a physical examination… the doctor told me I have to lose weight or I have to leave Stalag 13."

"That sounds like a good idea to me," Newkirk put in. "The leavin' part, I mean. I could go for a bit of that meself."

"But _then_ I go to the Russian Front."

"Maybe _not_ so good."

"What I do not understand is why they are picking on _me. _They only say they want all guards to meet minimum physical standards…"

"Right," Hogan picked up. "And whose physical standards are more minimal than _yours_? You're a regular poster-boy."

"Please, Colonel Hogan… do not joke."

"Okay, Schultz, I'm sorry. Is there anything we can do to help you out?"

"Not unless you can make me look like _this._" From his pocket Schultz produced a worn sepia-toned photograph mounted on a yellowed military identification card.

"Why do you want to look like Conrad Veidt?" LeBeau inquired as he inspected the photo of the angular, dark-haired, hollow-cheeked young man in the faded photo.

"That's _me_," Schultz informed him.

"Nah… can't be," Newkirk shook his head.

Carter peered over the sergeant's shoulder. "When was that picture taken?"

"I'd say the Battle of Austerlitz… hey, Schultzie, did you get Napoleon's autograph?"

Newkirk's jab got a laugh out of everybody except Schultz. "That was me in the _last_ war, right after I was drafted. You think I always look like _this_? When I was twenty, I looked like _that._"

Actually, the men had to admit to themselves that they had never imagined Schultz as either a younger _or _a thinner man… it had simply never occurred to them. As far as they were concerned, he had _always_ been the stocky, balding sergeant who rousted them out of their bunks far too early in the morning to line up in freezing weather to be counted, day after day after day. In spite of that, they _were_ fond of Schultz, in their own way, but had never given much thought to what he'd been like before their paths had crossed during this current war.

There were several possibilities as far as helping Schultz, Hogan knew. They'd managed to cancel transfers with his name on them before; they could do it again. It was well worth the effort to keep the easily-manipulated sergeant in so-called charge of their barracks; it was never difficult to pull the wool over the eyes of a man whose watchwords were 'I see nothing!' and consistently did his best to live by that credo. "Maybe you should go on a diet," he suggested.

"But I _have_," Schultz protested. "I have been on the diet where you eat only bread, and also the one where you eat only fish, and another one where you're supposed to eat only…"

"I think you're supposed to do them one at a time," Kinch clarified. "Works better that way."

"Jolly joker…"

A sudden not-so-distant memory returned to Hogan just then. "Have you tried the sauce béarnaise diet?" he asked with a grin. "I hear that one's a real appetite-killer."

"Colonel, that's inhuman," Newkirk protested. "I wouldn't wish that on me worst enemy… and at the moment me worst enemy is Germans."

"Thanks a _lot, _pal," Carter said with edgy huffiness.

"All right, all right," Hogan interrupted. "Schultz, we'll talk later… maybe we can think of a way to help you out. In the meantime, do yourself a favor and lay off the apple strudel… there's only so much we can do; we're not miracle workers."

The big man's round face broke into a sincerely grateful smile. "Thank you, Colonel Hogan. You make this war _so_ much better than the last one."

"Anything I can do to improve the war, happy to oblige. We strive for quality."

"Schultz, how come you're still _in _the Army?" Carter asked. "You're not exactly a spring chicken."

"I heard he tried shootin' himself in the foot once," Newkirk told him, "but it didn't work 'cause he couldn't see 'em."

"_Another _jolly joker…" Schultz fumed.

Hogan gestured towards the barracks door. "After you, gentlemen… Colonel Klink, the Happy Hun, awaits our smiling faces."

oo O oo

Dawn had broken two hours earlier. It was still raining in the outskirts of London. For once, General Biedenbender had elected to take the morning constitutional they offered him, in spite of the foul weather. He had a good reason to want to escape his cell for the forty minutes or so it would take to stroll across the muddy heath and past the airship sheds that had not seen their intended use since the late 1930's when obsolescence had grounded the mighty craft forever. As a younger man, he had once flown over this very area in a Zeppelin during the last war, raining bombs down on London. The sheds were a pleasant reminder of happier times.

And his escort this morning was Simon Knatchbull-Quimby, currently of _both _British military intelligence and the Third Reich. More intriguing company, the general could not imagine.

"May I ask where you transmit your orders from?" he inquired as they walked through the heavy gray mist. "Whitehall?"

"On occasion," the young lieutenant replied. "S.O.E. operates from many different locations. The name itself is somewhat of an inside joke… Stately 'Omes of England, we sometimes call it amongst ourselves. My usual transmission base is a country estate just outside Cobham, in Surrey. About a half hour from here by rail."

"I see."

He smiled. "All the better to avoid our bombers, you see… Whitehall becomes a bit chaotic during air raids, and the transmissions must continue to go through."

Ah, so much like the Zeppelin raids of 1917… again Biedenbender smiled fondly at the memory of his youth. "You seem very well organized, Lieutenant."

"We intend to win this war, General."

"Which brings us back to Colonel Hogan."

"Last night you mentioned that his weak point… his Achilles heel… would be his men."

"Every great leader has a fatal flaw, young man."

"Except the _Führer, _of course."

Biedenbender sometimes had his private doubts about that… the _Führer, _after all, was still hell-bent on taking over this absolute rubbish-heap of a country for some unclear reason. Had he _seen_ it? But this wasn't the time or the place to enter into any kind of political discussion. "Naturally…" he replied agreeably. "I must be clear on one thing, Lieutenant. I despise Hogan, but I do not underestimate him. You must not either. He is a very clever man."

"It would of course be possible to send an assassin. It's been considered on several occasions. We have our double-agents over there as well as here. Some Underground agents have been turned. We could use one of them to our advantage."

"Yes," Biedenbender nodded. "That would be possible. But Hogan is a special case; he merits more finesse. Simply killing him the way one would step on an insect…" He shook his head and gave a couple of solemn _tsks _with his tongue. "No. There are many men who could kill him; _I_ want to _wound _him first. I ask your indulgence."

"A small price to pay for your expertise, _Herr General_."

"When is your next transmission to Papa Bear?"

"I'll be checking in this afternoon."

"Do you speak directly to Hogan on your broadcasts?"

Knatchbull-Quimby shook his head. "Not customarily. Their radio man, Sergeant Kinchloe, is normally the one who receives incoming messages."

"Is there a way for you to bypass Kinchloe and get a message directly to Hogan?"

The young lieutenant thought for a moment. "There's an emergency code that only Hogan can decipher. The message will still pass through Kinchloe's hands as usual, but he won't even realize it's in code. When he delivers it to Hogan, Hogan will recognize it as such."

"Fine, fine."

"Won't Hogan become suspicious of a message that clearly bypasses his normal channels? He might share the contents with not only Kinchloe, but the others, as soon as he deciphers it."

"No he won't," Biedenbender replied smoothly. He had devoted most of a practically-sleepless night to this plan, examined it from all angles, and become convinced that it had an excellent chance of working. It played on Hogan's weak spot, all right. The perfect revenge. "Because _this_ is what you're going to transmit…"


	3. Chapter 3

Hogan sometimes thought he'd seen everything in this war, but today once again he was proven wrong. The tunnel underneath the kennel entrance had had a lot of different things in it over the years… ammunition, explosives, escaping prisoners, defecting German nobility, stolen art being returned to the rightful owner, even on one occasion a downed Allied airplane they had reassembled piece by piece and then flown out of the compound… but never, before today, had it contained a large wicker basket squirming with six German shepherd puppies and their proud mother, Heidi.

"How did you even get her into the tunnel?" he asked LeBeau. "She weighs more than you do."

"It's only for a few minutes, _Colonel,_" the Frenchman assured him. "We just wanted to get a good look at the puppies."

"A _very _few minutes." He was all for allowing the boys a few indulgences every now and then; they worked hard and they deserved it, but this was asking for trouble.

"Look at this one!" Carter held up one of the tiny pups in his cupped hands. "Hey, I think he likes me."

"There's no accountin' for taste," Newkirk told him. "He's only a week old; how many people has he actually met yet?"

LeBeau lifted another one up so the colonel could get a better look… not that he really seemed to want one. "This one's my favorite."

"You look like a proud papa about to start handin' out cigars." The outspoken British corporal, though, held one of the members of the litter in hand as well… no matter what he said, obviously he wasn't entirely immune to their appeal. He studied the tiny pup's small wrinkled face, brown eyes and wide nose more closely. "Here, Louis, this little runt looks just like you. You might even be twins."

LeBeau's expression got a little less exuberant. "That one's having a hard time, I think… it's not eating very much."

"Well, we can fix that." Newkirk knelt down to set the puppy back next to Heidi. "There you go, mate… belly up to the bar; drinks are on the house tonight." The puppy made only a half-hearted attempt to nurse, then backed away and curled up into a ball. "Maybe he ain't hungry."

From further down in the tunnel came the sounds of the radio suddenly crackling to life, and Kinch somewhat reluctantly got to his feet. He was halfway past Hogan and on his way to respond, toting one of the puppies in the crook of his arm close against his chest, when Hogan reached over and gently removed it from the sergeant's hands to set it back into the basket. "Uh-uh. No merchandise to leave the showroom floor, at the request of the management."

Kinch actually looked a little embarrassed, a rare occurrence. "Sorry, Colonel…" he grinned.

"You guys are acting like you've never seen dogs before. I've seen enough of them to last me a good long time. I may not even listen to any RCA Victor records after I get home, unless they get that mutt off the label."

Newkirk was making another attempt to get the smallest puppy interested in taking some nourishment, again without success. "Come on..." he urged gently. "You gotta eat if you're gonna grow up to be as big your brother Louis."

"You guys need to get the whole family back up to the kennel before the guards realize they've stepped out," Hogan told them. "I'll go see what London wants… when I get back, I don't want to see anybody down here who's got more than two legs, okay?"

"Yes, sir…" Carter murmured without enthusiasm.

Hogan headed to the radio room shaking his head in amazement. LeBeau's devotion to the dogs wasn't surprising. And Carter, certainly… Carter who had once brought a chimpanzee back to camp because he was too softhearted to leave it wandering in the woods after it had escaped from the Hammelburg Zoo. But Kinch and Newkirk? Just when you thought you really knew a guy, he could turn around full circle and surprise you. Even his own men had a surprise or two up their sleeves, apparently.

Kinch, his hands now puppy-free and therefore able to take down the Morse code coming through on the radio, set down his pencil and tapped out a brief acknowledgement, then handed the clipboard to Hogan.

"What's up, Kinch?"

"Not much," he replied. "When I got to the part that said 'you can put your feet up and relax' I wondered why I was even bothering to transcribe it… maybe Black Sheep's just checking to make sure the radio still works."

_Put your feet up_.

Hogan took a deep breath. The signal for the eyes-only emergency code. "Okay… thanks, Kinch." Something big was up, but he himself was the only one who was authorized to know about it for the moment. London had never actually used this code before… they'd briefed him on it, but they'd never had cause to actually use it. What was so important that he was the only one allowed to have the information?

Hogan climbed up the ladder that led to the barracks and headed straight to his office, closing the door firmly behind him without a word to the few men leafing through magazines on their bunks or sitting at the table playing a hand of poker. Once in private he took off his left shoe, then twisted the heel on its hidden pivot to expose a small hollow compartment. Inside was a single tightly-coiled sheet of thin onionskin paper with the list of characters he'd need to decipher the coded message, which would be only the few words located in between the trigger phrase 'put your feet up' and the signature 'Black Sheep'. Six words. How bad could it be?

Less than two minutes later Hogan had his answer. He felt like the very life was draining out of him, drop by drop. This couldn't be right… and yet he'd double- and triple-checked it. There was no mistake. This was what Black Sheep had wanted him and _only _him to know.

_One of your men suspected traitor._

oo 0 oo

In the small third-floor room tucked up under the steeply-gabled eaves of Woodlands Park House, Simon Knatchbull-Quimby removed the radio headset and sat back in his chair. He was certain that Kinchloe would deliver the message promptly, and that Hogan would decode it immediately when he noticed the recognition code phrase. Before they planned their next move, they would wait to see how he reacted. They had kept it simple, left plenty to the imagination, not given Hogan too many details. It was better this way. Give him just enough to put him off balance and then see what happened next.

He shut down the radio set. It was best for Black Sheep to be unreachable for requests for further information for a while, and the use of the eyes-only code forbade Hogan from discussing the subject with anyone else for the moment. Let Hogan stew for a while; that was what General Biedenbender, knowing Hogan inside and out as he did, had advised. Let him _watch_ his men. Wonder which one had turned on him. Start to think about what he would need to do about it. There was only one approved method of dealing with traitors in wartime. Hogan knew that as well as anyone did.

General Biedenbender had been right. What was an assassin's bullet compared to this?


	4. Chapter 4

Two a.m. Hogan hadn't slept a wink. In fact, he'd barely even closed his eyes since lights-out.

It couldn't be. That was all. It just _couldn't_ be. He didn't for one moment believe that one of his own men would go over. They'd known each other too long, been in too many tight spots together, risked their lives for one another time and time again. He _knew _these guys, inside and out.

Kinch. Carter. LeBeau. Newkirk.

Not one of them would ever betray the others.

But London said…

_No. _It just wasn't possible.

He pushed the flimsy blanket aside and got down from his bunk. Forget sleep. He briefly considered reading for a while, but he didn't feel like that either. There was no way he was going to be able to concentrate on anything else. Instead, he put on his bathrobe and very quietly opened the door that led to the barracks proper.

All the lights were out; the only illumination came from the occasional sweep of the searchlight in the guard tower that filtered through the gaps in the shutters and the flimsy batten door. The men were all sound asleep… only colonels with a lot on their minds were stuck lying awake all night, apparently. Outside, Hogan heard the faint crunch of a guard's boots on the frozen ground as he walked past the barracks… a guard much lighter than Schultz.

It wasn't any too warm in there, and he added another couple of sticks of wood to the smoldering embers in the stove. He noticed that Carter's arm hung down off his lower bunk from underneath the blanket, his hand rested on the floor… and he had his gloves on. In the _sack_? They were a quirky group, no doubt about it. But traitors, they were _not._

They _couldn't _be.

There was another sound after the footsteps of the guard passed by and faded into nothingness… it was barely audible over the soft crackling of the fresh dry wood catching fire and the vague buzz of snoring in the background, and for a moment he wasn't sure either what it was or where it was coming from. Hogan turned his head slightly, angling toward the bunk where Kinch and LeBeau slept, the one that led down to their tunnel system. A very, very faint sound. A voice? Yes… he couldn't hear any distinct words, but it was without a doubt a human voice.

If all the men were here asleep in the barracks where they belonged… _who_ was down _there_?

His first move was to the hollowed-out bench where the emergency pistols were kept; he withdrew a loaded .38 revolver, then moved swiftly over to the bunk and gave Kinch's shoulder a shake. Even still half-asleep, the sergeant realized immediately that the sight of his superior standing over him with a gun in the middle of the night was a very, very bad sign, but before Kinch could wake up fully enough to ask any questions, Hogan's gesture for silence stopped him. Kinch got out of his bunk without a word as he realized for himself what the problem was… he could hear it now too; that strange, low, indistinct sound coming from where no sound at all should be coming at this hour. Right underneath his bunk.

Kinch hurriedly woke Newkirk and Carter as Hogan roused LeBeau; they all clambered out of their bunks as quickly as possible, alert to danger although none of them were yet sure exactly what it was. Carter turned on the overhead light; Newkirk swiftly decided that even more than light he wanted some protection, and availed himself of the second emergency pistol. The five of them then gathered beside the bunk, casting uneasy glances at one another, until Hogan chose his moment and activated the lever that raised the panel and lowered the ladder. "You in the tunnel," he began in a voice that made it perfectly clear they weren't rolling out the Welcome Wagon for their visitor. "Identify yourself."

No reply from the open hole. Hogan waited until his patience gave out… which was to say, about three seconds… then stepped forward and leaned over just far enough to get a look at what was going on down there, leading with the pistol since he fully expected not to like what he saw. There was a man down there. He wasn't on his feet, though; he was lying on the dirt floor of the tunnel, face down, wearing nondescript dark-colored clothing and cap. Well, he hadn't received an invitation and they had no such thing as an open-door policy… whoever this guy was, he was in deep trouble with the heavily-armed management.

Kinch glanced at Hogan. "Looks like a civilian. Whoever it is could be injured, Colonel."

"Maybe." Or maybe it was a ruse to get them to drop their guard. One way or another, they were about to find out.

Hogan nodded to Kinch, who moved onto the ladder and started down. The colonel and Newkirk both kept the guns they held trained on the motionless form at the bottom, covering Kinch's descent. "Stay right where you are," Hogan ordered. "If you make a move on my man, I'll make sure it's the last mistake you ever make." Still nothing from their unexpected visitor… no motion, no sound. This was turning into a really, really rotten night… and getting worse by the moment.

When Kinch reached the bottom he hesitated only a moment before crouching down next to the man… sure, it might be a trick, and he might find a knife or a gun pulled on him in the very next moment; but in the moment right after that one he knew that the colonel and Newkirk would pull the plug on any funny stuff this guy might be in the mood to try, and he liked his own chances much better than he liked the stranger's. Very carefully, Kinch turned the man's head so he could see his face.

"Colonel… it's Dubois!"

Hogan stuffed the pistol into his pocket and mounted the ladder, calling back over his shoulder to Carter, "Get Wilson over here on the double!"

Kinch had turned the French Underground agent onto his back by the time the colonel got below. Dubois' face, in the dim light of the oil lamp, looked gray. He was in rough shape, all right. The reason for that was all too clear since they could now see the significant bloodstain that covered the right side of his jacket. Hogan pressed his fingers into the man's jugular vein, searching for a pulse. Much to his relief, he found one… it wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

A minute later Newkirk's face appeared above, at the opening of the bunk. "Carter and Wilson are on their way from Barracks Three… but they've gotta dodge the searchlight."

"Well, they better hurry," Hogan snapped.

LeBeau had also rushed down the ladder and was looking with shock and sorrow at his fallen countryman. Something had gone horribly wrong, all right… and whatever it had been might cost Dubois his life.


	5. Chapter 5

"I think he'll make it, sir."

That was exactly what his commanding officer wanted to hear. Hogan nodded in acknowledgement. "That's great news, Wilson. Can you stick around until roll call? It'll mean a little fancy footwork on your part to get back to Barracks Three for formation, but it's safer than trying to get back over there right now."

"Sure. I'd like to see him come to before I take off anyway."

The cot in the radio room where Kinch sometimes spent part of his nights was now a makeshift hospital ward. Wilson had done a creditable patch-up job on the wounded Frenchman with the somewhat limited supplies they had on hand; his overall assessment was that there didn't appear to be any critical internal injuries, so stopping the blood loss and applying a thick, secure bandage had been the first priority. Dubois still hadn't regained consciousness, but Wilson seemed confident that it was only a matter of time. It wouldn't be a moment too soon, in any case. Hogan wanted to know all about what had gone on out there that night, and as soon as possible.

Newkirk and Carter joined them from the direction of the tree-stump entrance to the tunnel; both dressed in the head-to-toe black clothing that they used for night work. "No sign of the others, Colonel," Newkirk reported. "We went all 'round the area. Either they all got away except Dubois… or they all got captured."

"And I guess I don't really have to ask whether or not the railway tunnel is still there. We didn't hear any explosions."

Carter shook his head. "They might have been jumped before they could even get the charges set; we didn't see any of that stuff out there either. Still a bunch of goons in the area prowling around."

Looking for Dubois. Like a cat, this guy appeared to have nine lives. He'd used up at least one tonight… maybe two. And he might be one of the lucky ones… there was no telling what had happened to the others. The only good news was that Newkirk and Carter hadn't found any bodies; the Krauts wouldn't be likely to bother taking the trouble to remove any dead Resistance fighters to the nearest funeral parlor and they'd have just left them where they fell. No bodies probably meant no dead. That was something.

So there was something to be said for insomnia… it had occurred to Hogan that if he hadn't been wide awake and in the barracks, they never would have found Dubois in time. Instead, they would have found him dead in the morning at the bottom of the ladder. As bad as things were, they could be a lot worse.

LeBeau, sitting on an overturned wooden crate beside the cot, thought he noticed some motion from the patient. "Maurice?" he said hopefully. "_C'est moi, Louis LeBeau… réveillez-vous."_

The reassuring words in his first language gave the wounded agent something to focus on as he struggled to push past the haze of confusion and pain that surrounded him. "Louis…?"

"_Oui… vous êtes sauf ici avec nous… tout va bien_." That last bit was pushing it a little, he knew… everything was _not _really all right, not by a longshot. Dubois himself figured that out a moment later when he made a weak effort to start to sit up; the pain gripped him and he fell back down to the cot. "_Doucement_…" LeBeau cautioned him. "_Ne bougez pas. Vous êtes blessé_."

Dubois took a few moments to think that over as Hogan and the medic approached the cot. "I am… at Stalag 13…?"

"Lucky for you we're centrally located," Hogan told him.

"_Les autres_… where are the others…?"

"We don't know," Hogan told him straight. "Newkirk and Carter just got back from scouting the area… they didn't see anybody except some random Krauts still prowling around. Can you tell us what happened?"

Wilson looked concerned and gave a brief shake of his head. "Colonel… later."

"I can speak…" DuBois insisted. "I _must_… there is great danger…"

Swell. Great danger. Just what he needed to make this lousy night complete. Hogan pulled up a low folding stool next to the crate LeBeau already occupied next to the cot, so DuBois wouldn't have to tax himself too much by speaking up. "Okay, go ahead."

"It was no accident, _Colonel_… there were too many _Boche _for them to be there by chance. They had to know we would be out there… and why…"

Everyone was silent for a moment, but everyone knew what it meant. "There's a leak," Kinch said finally.

"Who knew about the operation besides your own unit, _mon ami_?" Lebeau inquired.

_Well, for starters… each and every member of the Stalag 13 operation_, ran through Hogan's increasingly frustrated mind. _If there __is__ a leak, it could be right __here__, just like Black Sheep warned…_

"No others…" DuBois insisted. "For such an important mission we kept things very quiet… we took no chances… but suddenly, the _Boche _were everywhere… some of us were wounded…"

"You're livin' proof of that, mate," Newkirk nodded. "Emphasis on _livin'_."

"I'll cut to the chase, DuBois; my boys didn't find any bodies in the woods," Hogan continued. "So the others may have gotten away like you did."

"I fell behind…" he struggled to continue. "I knew I was close to the tunnel entrance, so I took the chance…"

"If I were you I'd go right out and buy a lottery ticket… I'm pretty sure this is your lucky night."

"The others may not have been so lucky…" DuBois paused; Wilson started to take another step towards the cot, fearing his patient might have lost consciousness again, but the Frenchman's eyes were still open and still focused intently on Hogan. "Tiger…"

"What about Tiger?" Hogan demanded, with a little more intensity that he might have liked to use if he'd had full control of himself. "What happened to her?"

"I do not know exactly, _Colonel; _I only know that she was shot… I was carrying her when I was hit myself… Sascha and Gunter were nearby; they picked her up but they could not carry me as well… so I had to try to make it here."

The night that couldn't possibly get any worse had just gotten worse. The operation a complete failure, DuBois seriously wounded, a possible traitor somewhere in the nest, now Tiger…

Kinch was at the radio. LeBeau still sat next to the wounded agent, reassuring him quietly in French. Carter and Newkirk were over by the ladder changing out of their black clothing and back into their nightwear, the clothes Schultz would expect them to be wearing when he barged through the barracks door in a little while to get them all lined up outside for roll call.

Hogan still couldn't quite believe it, but it sure wasn't looking good. Was it possible? Was one member of his own home team a traitor?

oo 0 oo

The brilliance of the early-morning sun was usually more or less welcome after a long dark night in the barracks, but this morning was an exception. No one had had enough sleep, and it was all the men in the formation could do to keep their eyes open. Klink was droning on and on about litter near the wire being unacceptable, but nobody was really listening. He'd make a heck of a super in some lucky apartment building after the war, Hogan thought idly. They'd have the cleanest lobby ash trays in town.

He surprised himself by feeling almost kindly toward the pompous Luftwaffe officer this morning… at least there were seldom any surprises from Klink. Hogan always knew where he stood with the Kommandant and had a pretty good idea how hard he could push and how much he could get away with. That wasn't to say that Hogan ever trusted Klink as far as he could throw him… he was self-confident, not stupid… but he never had to wonder what the score was either. That suited him just now, very well indeed. Klink might be a self-important fool, but he had not been responsible for what had happened to Tiger, DuBois, and the others, and that couldn't help but make his stock go up in Hogan's ledger at the moment.

When the dismissal finally sounded, Hogan's men clustered together as usual for any necessary debriefing. "Shall I go check on DuBois, _Colonel_?" LeBeau inquired.

_Kind of quick to want to go off on his own._ Hogan had the thought and then hated himself for it in the very same instant. "In a minute," he replied.

"I could get on the radio to see if there's any word on the missing Underground agents… maybe they've found a way to send a signal," Kinch offered.

"I said, _in a_ _minute_." His tone immediately convinced Carter and Newkirk that it wouldn't be a good time to offer any suggestions of their own… their colonel tended to be a bit touchy at times, they accepted that as one of the traits of an officer and had generally gotten used to it over the years they'd been working together. The man had a lot on his mind at the moment… not the least of which was one very special Underground agent with the same French accent as DuBois, but with much nicer legs.

Realizing he'd come on too strongly just then, Hogan took a breath and tried to take a step back mentally. He gestured to the guard who was just exiting the dog kennel, carrying a small wooden crate that according to its label had once held a half-dozen bottles of wine. "What's Langenscheidt up to over there?"

Apparently Schultz had been wondering the same thing, and he had lumbered over to have a word with the corporal. A brief exchange, a quick glance into the open top of the box… Schultz' large head shook back and forth a couple of times, very slowly, then he gestured to the younger guard to continue with his business. Langenscheidt saluted… not easy, having to balance the crate with one hand as he did so… and proceeded across the compound to the guards' barracks, where he, Schultz and the other enlisted men billeted. As for Schultz, he changed his course and meandered towards the barracks where Hogan's men stood.

"What's up, Schultz?" Hogan asked.

"One of the guard dogs had puppies," Schultz replied in a monotone, sounding anything but happy about it.

"Yeah, we know… six of 'em," Carter spoke up cheerfully, as usual without thinking things through. He only realized he'd spoken out of turn when Kinch stepped down hard on his foot.

Schultz squinted at him suspiciously. "How would _you_ know…?"

"Well, we got the birth announcements in the mail, of course," Newkirk spoke up to cover for Carter's mistake. "Let's see… I think it was three blue ones and three pink ones, if I remember right… and they had to send _two_ storks to handle the load."

Schultz didn't look to be in the mood for bantering, or for trying to figure out what in the world the Englishman might be talking about in the first place. "There _were_ six," was all he said.

"_Were _six?" LeBeau pressed. "What do you mean _were_?"

"_Ja… _the smallest one, Corporal Langenscheidt just took out of the kennel."

"And he's doing _what _with it?" the outraged Frenchman demanded.

Schultz sighed heavily. "It does not eat… so he put it in the guards' barracks… and we wait..."

"You can't _do _that!" Carter protested loudly, fully realizing what that meant.

"What else can we do?" Schultz already knew there had not been any volunteers among the guards to shoot the sickly little runt and put it out of its misery. When it came to the prisoners, _ja sicher, _most of the guards were more than happy to shoot at _them_ if the situation called for it… but for that tiny little pup, not a single man had spoken up to take the job.

"Well, I think that's a dirty rotten thing to do!" Carter kept yelling, now out of control to the point where Kinch's foot bearing down on his instep wouldn't even have gotten his attention, let alone shut him up. "That's _gotta_ be against the Geneva Convention! I don't care if it _is _a dog; they've got rights too, even in wartime!"

Schultz heaved his arms out to the sides and let them fall limply against his hips in a gesture of helpless surrender. "I'm sorry." He obviously was, genuinely so… he didn't know what to say, and he regretted the sad turn of events as much as any of them did.

"Poor little mite…" Newkirk muttered under his breath, kicking at a small rock in the dirt. "Ain't hardly fair, is it?"

LeBeau shot one more furious look in the direction Langenscheidt had taken the small crate, then let himself into Barracks Two and slammed the door behind him. He hadn't asked the colonel's permission… and he didn't care if he had it or not.

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz continued, sounding grateful for a change of subject… _any _change of subject. "The Big Shot wants to see you in his office."

Hogan sighed. "Okay, Schultz… on my way."

Hogan and Schultz started off in the direction of the Kommandant's office. Newkirk tried putting a hand on Carter's shoulder, but Carter shrugged away and walked off by himself around the back of the barracks, leaving Kinch and Newkirk to gaze morosely in the direction of the guards' barracks.

"One more casualty of this rotten war," Kinch said.

Newkirk nodded solemnly. "And he weren't even old enough to be drafted."


	6. Chapter 6

Hogan entered Klink's office without knocking or even slowing down, always his favorite approach since it demonstrated the least amount of respect. "You wanted to see me, Kommandant?"

Colonel Klink looked up from his desk sharply, appearing to be trying very hard to give the impression that he was in the middle of some vital project for the Third Reich that would ensure final victory once and for all over the Allies and thus did not appreciate the interruption. But Hogan knew the truth: all Klink really needed was a crossword puzzle and a couple of sharp pencils, and he'd be able to contribute as much to the war effort today as he ever did. "Yes, Hogan. I have just received some information from the Gestapo that may be of some interest to you."

"Oh, I find the Gestapo _very _interesting, sir. Especially that guy in charge, what's his name… Hummer… Hem-something…" He snapped his fingers twice. "It was right on the tip of my tongue…"

"_Reichsführer _Heinrich Himmler." Klink gave him an icy glare.

"That's the guy, yeah. You know him?"

"I have no time for your little games today, Hogan. I summoned you here to advise you that last night the Gestapo was patrolling the woods around the railway tunnel, because they had received information that an Underground unit had plans to sabotage it. The Underground's plan, of course, failed miserably."

Of all the times for Klink to be right… why did it have to be about _that_? Hogan still hadn't been able to get Tiger out of his mind. But he did his best to focus. "Boy, that's exciting, isn't it? Thanks for letting me know. Can I go now?"

"_No, _you may _not _go! _I _will tell you when you may go!" Klink gave it a moment… he liked it when he was sure he had control of a situation involving Hogan, and right now was one of those times… he enjoyed the feeling of having him pinned like a butterfly to a cork board. "Unfortunately, although the extremely efficient Gestapo was able to prevent the sabotage of the tunnel itself, they were not able to apprehend all four of the Underground agents they discovered in the woods. Two got away, for the moment; one was captured, and one was killed."

_Killed… _It was all Hogan could do not to let his gut reaction show on his face. DuBois had gotten away; that was one… that left Gunter, Sascha, and Tiger, who he already knew was wounded. Only two of them were alive, if Klink's information was accurate. Still, he managed to continue in a breezy, casual tone. "Wow, four against what, about fifty? Not surprised the Gestapo wasn't up to the job. But what's that got to do with me, sir?"

"Until further notice, work details to effect repairs on the road outside the camp have been cancelled. In the event that the fugitives are still in the area, I do not want them attempting to contact any of my prisoners for assistance. All prisoners will remain inside the wire until the Gestapo resolves the situation."

"You mean the 'extremely _efficient_ Gestapo'."

"Yes, of course, the extremely _efficient_ Ges…" Klink cut himself off in mid-word and snapped a salute to his bald forehead. "_Dis-_missed, Hogan!"

There was no one outside waiting for him when the colonel exited the Kommandant's office and descended the short flight of wooden steps. Newkirk and Kinch were tossing a football back and forth over by the gate leading to the motor pool area. LeBeau and Carter were nowhere in sight. Not surprising; they both had some steam to blow off and that was understandable. It was a cruel war in the best of circumstances, even to those who were to some extent able to defend themselves. For those who couldn't do that, like week-old puppies who had barely opened their eyes to get a good look at the world, all it took was one bad break to lose the whole ballgame.

oo 0 oo

Another day pelting with rain in northwest London. Just a week ago, the mere thought of having to endure another day of captivity in these vile conditions would have cut General Biedenbender to his core, although he would never have let it show… it would have given his captors far too much satisfaction. They had no idea of his innermost thoughts whatsoever. They had no inkling that he had privately considered on more than one occasion that he might well be better off dead.

But then this enterprising young double agent, Simon Knatchbull-Quimby, had walked into his cell and literally turned on a light in General Biedenbender's increasingly dark life. Now there _was _a good reason to rise from his bunk in the morning, shave, dress. He was even feeling a little jovial about his daily constitutional, something that surprised his regular jailers. There might be good news today. Such was possible.

And certainly nobody begrudged Knatchbull-Quimby the task of supervising his exercise period; putting up with the sullen, short-tempered general was not a popular assignment and the others were always eager to list all the other duties they needed to attend to instead.

Today their walk had again led them towards the airship sheds on the heath, and they entered one to get out of the rain when it began to come down more heavily. Both sets of massive double doors, front and rear, had been removed a half-decade earlier and the steel melted down for re-use in the war effort, but the walls and roof of the massive structure provided enough cover from the storm without arousing the suspicions of the guards in the nearby watchtowers of the prison proper. The two of them were in plain sight at all times… what could there possibly be to concern the guards? Not to mention, just outside the hangar, a squad of new recruits was drilling… right face, left face, the very basics of infantry training. A third of them would likely be dead, missing or captured within the year, if the war went on that long.

"You have news?" the general asked as soon as they were out of the weather.

"I've maintained radio silence for the past two days," Simon replied. "Giving Hogan a bit of a chance to twist after the information he's received, and consider his next move. Also, a local Underground mission went bad; that failure will weigh heavily on him as well."

Biedenbender eyed his companion thoughtfully. "Terrible tragedy."

"Yes," Simon smiled, "isn't it? I thought so the entire time I was sending the Gestapo out to capture the group of Resistance fighters I had dispatched to that location. The patrol killed one, captured one, and two escaped. I strongly suspect that the ones who managed to evade the patrol would seek shelter at Stalag 13 to ask Hogan's assistance. Hogan will of course be compelled to take action."

Biedenbender nodded. "Our Colonel Hogan is not one to sit idly by and fiddle while Rome burns."

"All he's been told is that one of his men is a suspected traitor… no clue as to _which _one. He won't know who he can completely trust, which should have a serious impact on his ability to contain and control the situation. And the more time he wastes with his suspicions, trying to discover the traitor… when there _isn't _one… the less time he will have to make things inconvenient for the Third Reich."

He might even get his commission reinstated for this, Biedenbender mused. Now they would _have _to believe him in Berlin, as unlikely as what had happened to him so far was going to sound, as bad as he currently looked in the eyes of his superiors. Finally, after all these dark, rainy months, there was a bit of light at the end of his tunnel.

Noting the pensive look on the general's face, Simon continued. "I hope your confinement has not been too arduous, _Herr General_… I would of course be happy to try and make things more comfortable for you, but…"

Biedenbender waved his hand dismissively. "Naturally that is not possible; I completely understand. We must not risk arousing any suspicions. I can withstand any degradations the Allies choose to heap upon me. My time will come, and until it does, I will bide it with patience and fortitude." In fact, he felt he could even put up with that insufferable idiot General Schmidt, who to his profound annoyance had recently been transferred from Whitehall to a cell just down the corridor from his own. The two of them had managed, so far, to completely ignore one another, and that was just fine by Biedenbender. If the day came when he had no one better to talk to than that pompous carouser Schmidt, he would be removing the laces from his boots and divesting the Allies of one of their most high-ranking prisoners of war. He was quite sure he would rather die than publicly acknowledge that he and Schmidt had once, more or less, been on the same side. But none of that was Knatchbull-Quimby's concern… he had his own job to do, and thus far he was performing it admirably. "What do you propose to do now?" the general inquired.

"I think it's time that I check in with the colonel and get a read on his state of mind."

"He may well try to complete the mission the Underground failed to; I presume you have considered that?"

"Certainly. I think it would be unfortunate, however, if he were to encounter serious resistance and possibly be injured or killed… so I have instructed the sentries around the railway tunnel to remain on alert but out of sight, and to capture any saboteurs alive and unharmed. Anyone who shoots to kill will be disciplined severely."

"Let me ask you this…"

"Yes, sir, of course."

"You do intend to… how shall I put it… _permanently dispatch_ Hogan at the end of this exercise… correct?"

"Absolutely," Knatchbull-Quimby replied as smoothly as if he had been asked for the correct time. "When the time is right. And at that point, _Herr General, _I had hoped that _you_ would have some suggestions as to the most suitable method, sir."

"I've been giving that subject serious thought, young man, ever since the day Colonel Robert Hogan took from me everything that has ever mattered, and ruined my name in the eyes of my _Führer_. I can assure you that I will not disappoint you with a lack of suggestions."

His words echoed in the empty airship hangar, as if he were saying them again and again and again.


	7. Chapter 7

Two days had passed since DuBois' arrival. He was improving, though still in no condition to attempt to rejoin his own unit, even if he had known where to find them.

In the barracks, Newkirk and Carter were sitting a hand of gin rummy. Nearby, at one of the lockers by the door, LeBeau rummaged with increasing frustration, and finally spoke up. "Where's my egg?"

"I didn't know you'd laid one," Newkirk remarked, not even bothering to lift his gaze from the cards in his hand.

"Very funny," the Frenchman scowled. "I got one from Herman this morning; I was going to make a meringue_… _but it's gone. Okay, who took it?"

"What's anybody gonna do with a raw egg?"

"_Cook _it, maybe?" Louis snapped impatiently.

"Right… well, the first bloke we see boilin' an egg right here in the middle of the barracks on the only stove we got, we'll have your thief, won't we?"

That wasn't what the frustrated chef wanted to hear. "_Ça, c'est pas de rigolo…_ is there nothing the English _won't _boil?"

"Y'know," Carter spoke up, "I read in a magazine that some guys swallow raw eggs to build up their muscles."

LeBeau gave Carter's left bicep a firm squeeze through his shirtsleeve. It felt like a pipe cleaner in there; all sinew. "Congratulations, you're not the guilty one."

"I think I should resent that."

"Are you gonna finish this hand or what?" Newkirk asked with growing impatience.

"It's true," Carter went on. "That body-builder Jack LaLanne does it."

Kinch joined the conversation from his seat on his bunk. "You know, speaking of missing stuff, I'm down a pair of socks."

"From raw eggs to socks with holes in 'em…" Newkirk grumbled. "Jack LaLanne's probably got 'em; I think I saw him double-timin' barefoot this mornin' outside the wire. Who bleedin' _cares_?"

"How would _you _know the socks Kinch lost had holes in 'em?" Carter challenged.

"_All _our socks got holes in 'em! Play a card!"

Carter set his entire hand face-up on the table. "Gin."

"What's going on, fellas?" Hogan asked as he entered the barracks from his office.

"We seem to be missing a couple of small things, Colonel," Kinch explained. "There's a pair of socks gone from my footlocker, and LeBeau says he's missing an egg from the food stock."

Oh great. Another round of petty thievery. Just what they needed, on top of everything else. It had happened before; it was a standard problem in a living situation like theirs, with a lot of men living practically on top of each other and necessities in short supply, but always in the past it had been traced to a new prisoner in the barracks, someone unaware that this wasn't exactly your standard POW camp. At the moment, though, everyone living in Barracks Two had been there for at least six months, most of them much longer, and everyone knew the score. That didn't figure. Why _now_?

"Whoever's doing it, knock it off," was all he had to say on the subject. "And pass the word along to the guys who aren't here right now. We've got lots more important matters to worry about."

Nobody had to ask what. "London will still want that rail tunnel out of commission," Kinch put in.

"We'll take care of that. We're going out tonight, all of us."

"Wouldn't it be better if only two of us went?" LeBeau asked. "If all five of us go, we'll be easier to spot… we already know the Krauts are out there, and they'll be waiting for another group to try for the railroad tunnel."

"I didn't say we were going to link arms and go out there like a marching band at halftime. We'll split up… Carter, you and I will lay the charges; the rest of you fan out and cover us. If we run into trouble, hopefully they won't get more than one of us."

"Charmin'," Newkirk grumbled under his breath, still steamed over the hefty pot Andrew had just raked in. "So you figure that only _one _of us gettin' knocked off is the best-case outcome, then?"

"You want an easier assignment, join the USO." Hogan glanced at his watch. "We go out at twenty-one-hundred hours. Be ready. I don't want any slip-ups."

oo 0 oo

Everything went fine, like clockwork, perfectly according to plan… until they got there.

It looked too easy, and, Hogan mused as they surveyed the area of the railway tunnel from a safe distance, that was a real good reason to be suspicious from the get-go.

"Looks like a clear shot, sir," Newkirk said as they crouched together in the darkness.

"What it _looks _like and what it _is _can be two different things," the colonel reminded him. "How come there's no welcoming committee?"

"You're _disappointed _there aren't any patrols?" LeBeau asked.

"In a way, yeah… they caught an Underground band out here just a couple nights ago, the tunnel is a high-profile target, so how come they're not guarding it anymore?"

"Maybe they figure DuBois' group is the only Underground cel operating in this area," Kinch suggested.

"They'd have to be pretty short-sighted to think that… and it's not exactly what the Gestapo is known for. They usually like to drive in a two-foot spike when a thumbtack would do the job, not the other way around." Another few seconds of quiet while he did his best to assess the situation… it just didn't smell right.

"Maybe we should call it off, then."

Now Hogan had something _else _to occupy his thoughts… _Kinch_, suggesting that they scrub the mission? That wasn't like him. He knew how important this strike was; he'd been in on all the briefings. Kinch was no coward; of that Hogan was sure.

_But double-agent…?_

"I think Kinch is right," LeBeau chimed in. "Let's get back to camp and leave this for another night."

Great, now there were _two_ of them in dissention. "I say we go for it… but be on your toes; there are bound to be patrols out there even if we can't see 'em, and they probably wouldn't mind picking off a few more saboteurs as long as they're out here."

"Thank you… I needed that," Newkirk put in. Well Newkirk, at least, was as predictable as ever. In a way, that was a relief.

Hogan checked his weapon. "Let's go… cross your fingers."

"I'd rather cross _town, _if it's all the same with you."

They fanned out in all directions: Kinch, Newkirk and LeBeau each on his own, and Hogan and Carter waited together to give them time to disperse before heading for the opening of the rail tunnel. It would be up to the two of them to set the charges beneath the tracks just inside the opening; it was the most critical part of the operation, so Hogan wanted to keep his own eyes on everything that went on, every moment, personally.

"Ready, Carter?"

Andrew nodded eagerly… this was his favorite part. "I sure am, boy… uh, _sir_."

"Let's move."

Hogan got to his feet and took two steps in the direction of the tunnel; the next thing he heard was a loud thud right behind him. Carter lay flat on his face on the ground, tripped up by a loose shoelace. The man carrying the explosives was the one who had the most to lose by falling down. But the guy next to him had almost as much.

Hogan grabbed the young sergeant's arm with undisguised impatience and hauled him upright. "Tie your shoe, and that's an order!"

The huge knot Carter hastily made in his laces would probably take a pocketknife to undo, but that was a problem for later on.

It didn't get any better from there. Oh, Carter had the charges all right, and he and the colonel swiftly and expertly buried them beneath the track, exactly as planned. When Carter twisted the knob to set the time-delay fuse, however, they heard a sharp _ping_ and a small silver-colored object flew out of the timing mechanism and lost itself in the crushed-rock ballast between the railroad ties. "Oops."

What part of _I don't want any slip-ups _hadn't Carter understood? "What was that?" the colonel demanded.

"Uh… I think it was part of the timing mechanism… I must've over-wound it."

Of all the missions, why _this _one? "Can you do without it?"

Carter took a closer look. "Not really… it was a kinda important part."

"How important?"

"The, um… the timing spring…"

"You don't have a spare, do you?"

Carter gave an enthusiastic nod. "Oh, you bet I do."

_Thank goodness_. "Then let's have it."

Now Carter looked suddenly ill. "It's… back at camp…"

That was that. They were through, and they might as well admit defeat and head back to Stalag 13.

Hogan would have been willing to bet things couldn't get any worse at that point, but just as he and Carter began to run back to the cover of the surrounding forest, one of those patrols he'd been sure was there but hadn't seen yet stepped out in front of Carter, rifle leveled squarely at his chest. "_Halt!_"

Carter stopped in his tracks and stuck both hands straight up in the air. Ten paces ahead and behind a sturdy tree, Hogan was thankful for one thing: that they'd left the charges in place instead of taking the time to remove them. Being found with that kind of thing on them would not bode well if they were searched. But maybe they weren't completely sunk yet. "Hey, Fritz!" the colonel yelled, hoping to distract the soldier before things went any more wrong. "Over here!"

It was a cue for Carter to break and run, and he didn't disappoint. But the guard _did_… although he called out _halt _a couple more times, there wasn't one shot fired in Carter's direction. Not a single one. Not even a frustrated random spraying that often happened when a sentry didn't know what he was shooting at or where, and didn't care. Carter was free and clear. Great. But…

…_why wasn't that Kraut firing at him_?

There was one possible reason that occurred to Hogan as he made his own headlong dash through the woods to get away… maybe that sentry _knew_ Carter.

Maybe Carter was their traitor.


	8. Chapter 8

"I can't understand why he didn't shoot me."

It had to have been the tenth time Carter had said that, all in the space of the five minutes since the weary, out-of-breath prisoners had made it to the tree stump and down the ladder inside to the safety of their own tunnel.

"It had to have been a set-up," Kinch stated firmly. "No question. That's why we didn't see them when we got there. They _wanted _us to move in close."

"But why didn't he shoot me?" Carter asked again. "I mean, I'm just surprised, that's all… I'd have expected him to at least _try _and shoot me when I took off… why do you think he didn't?"

"So much for the railroad tunnel," LeBeau muttered in disgust. "Still there, and still letting munitions trains get through."

"_And_ with the charges still under the track," Newkirk added.

"Maybe they won't find them."

"Do you honestly think this is our lucky night or somethin'? Of _course _they're gonna find 'em."

Carter shook his head yet again, still in complete disbelief. "I mean, he _had _me, dead to rights… why didn't he shoot me?"

"_I_ might do in a minute, if you don't clam up!"

"I'm just surprised, is all…"

"Knock it off!" Hogan broke in. If he'd had any patience left at all earlier, it was gone for good now. Another mission gone bust, that rail tunnel still in operation, London was telling him he had a traitor on his hands, and tonight Carter had gotten away scot-free when there was absolutely no reason for that sentry not to have at least _tried _to take him down when he made a run for it. Hogan, as a results man, found himself pretty damn edgy when nothing had gone right for way too long.

And there had still been no word about Tiger.

He needed to get to the bottom of this, and fast.

oo 0 oo

Carter took one more long look at the contents of the large envelope that had arrived for him at mail call, then stuffed it under his thin mattress, stealing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure nobody was watching. Boy, he sure wouldn't want anybody seeing _this_. It was way too important, and these guys… well, they just wouldn't understand. There was no way he could explain it, and he wasn't even going to try.

Maybe… just one more quick peek.

It was for real, all right. He still could hardly believed this had arrived, and he'd waited all afternoon until he'd finally found himself safely alone in the barracks to open it. This had been one of the longest days of his life. Knowing this was here, and being afraid someone would find it. Boy howdy.

He took the one more extra-long look that he wanted… no telling when he'd be able to take this out again, and he wanted to commit every detail to memory… then he replaced it very carefully under the mattress, finding the rip in the worn-out ticking and stuffing it way in, as far as it would go, into the straw. He had considered stashing it in the tunnel, but no. It was way too important. He wanted to keep it close at hand.

One more glance at the empty barracks, and then Carter stepped out the door into the compound, from where the sound of a spirited volleyball game was coming.

On the count of three, Hogan opened his office door, satisfied that Carter was really gone. What could be such a big secret that Carter, normally the most open and forthcoming of his crew, would feel the need to be so secretive to stash it not only under, but actually _inside _his mattress? That wasn't like Carter at all. What was so all-fired important? Did it have anything to do with why that guard in the woods hadn't shot him when he'd had the chance?

Feeling half embarrassed, half downright traitorous, Hogan knelt beside Carter's bunk and slipped his hand under the mattress, feeling around for the rip in the worn-out ticking. He was elbow-deep in straw by the time his fingers finally reached the envelope deep inside; he grasped it carefully and pulled it out slowly, careful not to damage its obviously valuable contents. Didn't look like much, just a plain manila envelope, about eight by ten inches, stiffened by either cardboard or the bulk of whatever was inside. Interesting… the postmark was California, not Indiana or North Dakota, where most of Carter's correspondence came from. Typewritten label and everything. Sure looked important. He had a pretty good idea how foolish he would have felt if all he'd unearthed had been a simple letter from Carter's mother in Muncie. No, this had to be something else.

He unfastened the metal clasp on the end, reached inside, and extracted the enclosed document, then peeled back the sturdy cardboard sleeve that kept it from bending. This was the kind of envelope battle plans could be shipped in. Maps. Coded documents. Top-secret chemical formulas.

Cheesecake photographs of Betty Grable.

A glossy eight-by-ten of Miss Grable in all her long-legged glory, flashing a big white movie-star smile over her shoulder directly at the camera. And on the bottom of the photo was a flamboyant signature in thick black ink.

_To Andrew, thanks for being a fan. Yours, Betty Grable._

If Hogan had had a hand free, he would have been tempted to slap himself silly.

Sheepishly, he carefully replaced the precious photo in its envelope and slipped it back into its safekeeping spot inside the mattress. Just as he'd been thinking that nothing would ever make sense again, he'd been proven wrong. _This _made _perfect_ sense. Carter wasn't in the mood for the needling he'd get if the boys found out about it, that was all, and he was keeping it under wraps. The men had the right to some privacy, and it was darn hard to come by in this place. Andrew Carter was no traitor. He was one hundred percent faithful to the United States of America, apple pie, and Betty Grable… not necessarily in that order.

"Sorry, Carter…" he mumbled as he carefully put the bunk back in order. "Sorry, Betty."

Hogan was now forced to consider the possibility that the real traitor around here might be himself. If this was all the trust he had in _Carter_, after all these years, the problem might not so much be the possibility of a traitor in the ranks as it was Hogan's own snap judgments and ridiculous suspicions. How could he even _think _it? He didn't know.

oo 0 oo

He didn't know. And yet, the very next day he found himself doing exactly the same thing again, only this time to Kinch.

He had to be _sure_, was what he kept telling himself… as if that were any kind of a real excuse for this incredible lack of trust he was displaying in his own men, men who had saved his life more than once during the course of their missions, men that before this he would never have suspected of being anything less than totally and completely loyal, not only to him but to one another. But Black Sheep's message couldn't be dismissed out of hand, not if he had any intention of protecting this unit and the men in it. If one _had_ gone bad, he couldn't risk the lives of all the others. He would be negligent in his duty as a commanding officer if he did anything less than investigate Black Sheep's intelligence and then decide for himself what was really going on here.

He found Kinch in the radio room. No surprises there. The surprise was what happened next.

"Oh… hi, Colonel," Kinch greeted him, obviously a little startled. He had a small book in his hand that he immediately slid into the narrow gap underneath the radio; it only just fit.

_So what's that… and why doesn't Kinch want me to see it? _Okay, Hogan had satisfied himself that the reported traitor in their midst wasn't Carter… but could it be Kinch? "How's it going?" he replied in an even tone.

"I was just about to go topside… this message just came in." He passed his clipboard over to the colonel. "Just got this from Black Sheep; he's transmitting again."

Yeah, it had to be from Black Sheep, all right… the next keyword in the series was included in the first line; meaningless to anyone who wasn't aware of the eyes-only code procedure. Hogan took the clipboard from the sergeant's hand. "Thanks, Kinch. Hey, we're having a problem with the amplifier in the coffeepot up in my office; I'd like you to check it out."

"Uh… now?"

The colonel nodded, pretending to scan the message and trying to show no particular interest in getting the sergeant out of the radio room. "Yeah; Klink's been getting some reports from the guards outside the wire that we need to hear, but the speaker's out of whack. Lots of static."

"I didn't know it wasn't working right."

"Just started up. I'm sure you'll have it fixed in no time."

"Okay; I'll go up and have a look at it."

"Thanks."

The minute the sergeant was up the ladder, Hogan put the clipboard aside and went for the radio desk. Skulking around like this, spying on his own men, was starting to make him feel like a third Hardy Boy… a good-for-nothing one that nobody ever talked about. He'd devoured the series of books as a kid; his favorite had been _The Great Airport Mystery._ As anxious as Hogan was to see how _The Great POW Camp Mystery _ended, he was willing to bet it would never become any twelve-year-old boy's favorite. Right now, he hated it as much as he'd ever hated anything he'd had to do in this war. It was turning him into someone he didn't want to be.

But what choice did he have? The safety of everyone in this operation depended on him identifying and neutralizing the bad apple in this barrel. If indeed there was one.

The pamphlet he extracted from the tight space underneath the radio could have turned out to be anything… a code book, a list of known Allied agents in the area and their exact locations, a record of recent sabotage incidents and those responsible for the destruction, a map of the secret escape routes out of Germany.

It was a college catalogue from Howard University in Washington, DC, obviously well-thumbed, with several pages dog-eared and notes in the margins. Well, that figured… Kinch, with his exceptional intelligence and ability, was already looking ahead to after the war, and good for him if college figured into his plans; he was definitely college material, probably more than anybody else currently marking time in this dump.

Once again, mortified at the trust and privacy he had just violated, maybe even more so than when he'd discovered Carter's hidden 'secret', Hogan replaced the pamphlet where Kinch had concealed it. If there was any way he could help make this happen after the war, he would… not that Kinch would _need_ his help, but he wanted to somehow try and make this up to him.

Hogan took advantage of the fact that he was alone to remove the concealed paper from the hidden compartment in the heel of his shoe and decode the message Kinch had just handed off to him. It didn't take long; this time there were only four words between the key word and the signature: _Any progress identifying traitor?_

"Don't you think I'd tell you if there _was_?" Hogan mumbled half to himself. This still didn't make any sense. Black Sheep sounded so certain, and yet…

… how could it be?


	9. Chapter 9

Focused on his own image in the cracked mirror over the sink, DuBois very carefully guided a straight razor down his jawline, scraping away the last small patch of his week's growth of beard along with the layer of soapy froth that passed for shaving cream. "I do not see what difference it makes, whether or not I am clean-shaven for the rendez-vous."

"It could make a lot of difference on your way there," Hogan advised. "With your arm still in a sling you're likely to attract the wrong kind of attention. If you also look like you haven't had a shave in a week… and I hate to break it to you, but you _do_… you'll look all that much more suspicious to any patrols that might spot you before you reach the safe-house."

DuBois managed to shrug one shoulder… his left, the one that still worked properly. The shave he'd attempted holding the razor in his right hand, with that arm in its sling, had nearly ended in a second bloody injury worthy of the _Croix de Guerre_. He was exploring the possibilities of ambidexterity with varying degrees of success… doing all right, but it was slow going. "Whatever you think best, _Colonel. _I'm eager to return to my comrades."

"And we'll be eager to hear your report," Kinch reminded him. "You know our emergency frequency; let us know right away what you find out about Sascha and Gunther… and Tiger."

Hogan was relieved he hadn't had to say it himself. "We'll have someone monitoring the radio until we hear from you."

"I understand, sir."

Carter stood watch at the barely-open door, with one eye up to the crack so he could keep tabs on what was going on outside. "Schultz is heading this way."

Hogan shook his head when alarm showed on DuBois' face. "Don't panic; just pretend he's not here… that's what _he'll_ do."

Then Carter's jaw dropped. "Holy cow… Klink's with him!"

"_Now _can we panic?" Newkirk demanded.

Thinking quickly, Hogan grabbed the shaving mug from DuBois' hand and scooped out every bit of what was left in it, smearing a thick layer over the agent's nearly clean-shaven face. Newkirk grabbed a chair, Kinch pressed him to a seated position, and LeBeau deftly snatched the straight razor from his hand and immediately began to re-shave him… and this would be the world's slowest shave, since the froth that disguised the agent's features was the only thing standing between him and a firing squad.

By the time Schultz opened the door for Klink to step inside, mere seconds later, it almost looked as if nobody in the room had anything to hide. Still, Klink surveyed the men with obvious disapproval… even more than usual. "It is customary to come to attention when the Kommandant enters a room, is it not?"

"Is it?" Newkirk mused. "I thought that was when a lady entered… didn't want to insult you."

"I'm sorry, Kommandant," LeBeau said without lifting his gaze, staying intensely focused on scraping the razor down DuBois' neck, the part of him Klink was least likely to recognize as someone who did not belong in the barracks. "But this is the most difficult part."

"That's right," Hogan agreed. "You don't want either of those men making any sudden moves; they could both be up for Purple Hearts. Hey, you can be next if you want; have a seat."

Klink gave him a withering glance. "Thank you, but I have better things to do with my evening than spend it with a prisoner holding a razor to my throat."

Hogan shrugged. "Suit yourself. Any particular reason for your dropping in this evening? I mean, not that you _need _a reason; we're always happy to see your smiling face, aren't we, fellas?"

"Just a little surprise visit," Klink said in what he intended to be a suave air of superiority, but always tended to come off sounding more pompous and smug than anything else. "One of the many ways we here at Stalag 13 maintain our enviable no-escapes record… I am watching you like a hawk, Hogan, and don't you forget it."

"Oh, we'd never dream of trying to put anything over on you, sir," the American colonel assured him. "And escape? Ridiculous."

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"I mean, who'd want to escape _now, _just a couple days before the glee club's all-request night in the rec hall?"

Kinch, Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk hummed a chord as if pre-programmed to accompany the colonel's meaningless patter. It was three-and-a-half-part harmony at best, since Newkirk was a half-tone flat, and it was annoying enough to cause the Kommandant to take a step towards the door, which was all that mattered. They weren't bucking for a recording contract; they just wanted to win a war.

"A word to the wise, Hogan," Klink reinforced. "I'm watching your every move."

"I'm flattered, sir."

"_Don't_ say I didn't warn you."

"Oh, I won't… I promise."

Schultz opened the door again for Klink to exit, and was right behind him and halfway outside when Hogan stopped him. "Schultz?"

"Yes, Colonel Hogan?"

"Come here a second."

"Why?" the sergeant asked suspiciously.

"Just come here."

Whatever it was, he knew he was in for something… he always _was_… but Schultz silently resigned himself to that fact as usual and slowly approached Hogan. Hogan raised the sergeant's arms out to his sides and reached into the spacious pockets of his topcoat, extracting a couple of good-sized chocolate bars from the right and a ham sandwich wrapped in thick white paper from the left. "I thought you were supposed to be on a diet."

"I _was_… all morning."

"Schultz…" Hogan shook his head. "The Russian Front, remember?"

"That's _all, _I _promise._" Hogan just looked at him silently for a few seconds, giving him time to change his mind and own up. Slowly, from his inside pockets Schultz pulled out a slightly greasy brown paper bag containing a roasted chicken leg, then a half-loaf of pumpernickel bread and a sizeable wedge of limburger cheese, and handed them over.

Kinch chuckled. "Hey, if we added a coin slot, we'd have our own Automat."

"No snacks," Hogan reminded Schultz as he pointed towards the door. "We're trying to help you, you know. The least you can do is keep it down to six square meals a day."

"But I'm _hungry_," Schultz insisted with a pitiful whine.

A pile of carrots rested on the table awaiting LeBeau's inspiration as a side dish for the prisoners' dinner; Carter picked up two of the larger ones and stuck one in each of Schultz' side pockets, leaving the green tops waving like tassels. "There you go, big fella."

"_Ja…_" Schultz grumbled. "_Danke… für __nichts__…_"

After they finally got him out the door, Hogan handed the ham sandwich to DuBois. "Here you go; a little something for the road. Actually, I think this would hold you all the way back to France if you were going that far."

oo 0 oo

The final step was to get DuBois fitted for civilian clothes that would get him safely through to his contact. Newkirk had already done most of the necessary tailoring; all that was needed was for DuBois to try on the suit, stand on a stool, and hold still for a few last-minute alterations, while Carter put the finishing touches on his forged identity papers. The tunnel was the best place for that; no chance of having any more unexpected company dropping in.

"What do you think, sir?" Newkirk asked Hogan.

Hogan looked unsure. "Pinstripes?"

"Well, he's a tall bloke; he can handle 'em. You'd never put that on a short, fat fellow; he'd look like a watermelon."

Carter handed the fake papers to Hogan for an okay; they looked fine, and Hogan passed them to DuBois to put into his pocket. DuBois scanned the document briefly; one word leaped off the page at him and he reacted with violent indignation. "_Vichy_? _Jamais!_"

"With your accent, you want to try to convince a patrol that you're Hitler's brother-in-law? I'm sorry; it's wartime… we all have to make sacrifices."

"But _Colonel…_" Yet Hogan wasn't budging. Grimacing with distaste, DuBois added the document to his inside pocket. "All right… just this once. I hope no one asks to see them."

Newkirk stepped around to his other side to check that the sleeves on the jacket were absolutely even, and LeBeau bent down to pick something small up off the ground where his feet had been a moment before. "Some tailor _you_ are." He held up a British halfpenny piece. "_C'est à toi? _You have a hole in your own pocket. You're a disgrace to your thimble."

"Give it here."

LeBeau tossed the coin back to its short-tempered owner. "Remind me never to ask you to make _me_ a suit… I would not want to lose my trousers at an awkward moment."

"Don't listen to 'im," Newkirk advised DuBois, jamming the coin back into his pocket. It reminded him of home, and he kept it with him for luck… he rightly figured he needed all he could get in this dodgy business.

LeBeau wasn't quite finished yet. "Why don't you give him an extra pair of suspenders just in case?" he taunted.

This time Newkirk took a swat at the corporal, who ducked away laughing. "LeBeau, I'm warnin' you…"

Kinch entered from the direction of the radio room. "All set," he reported. "We let Black Sheep know that you're well enough to travel, and he radioed back that he'll have you met at the edge of town tonight at midnight, then escorted to the safe-house in Dusseldorf. He said he'd handle it personally."

"Thank you all, for everything you have done," DuBois said sincerely.

"We're a full-service bed-and-breakfast," Hogan added. "Good luck. Stay safe."

oo 0 oo

It was almost ten o'clock at the elegant Woodlands Park House estate, but the baseline hum of activity never really shut down: it might ebb and flow, but it went on all day and all night, seven days a week. Simon Knatchbull-Quimby climbed the familiar grand staircase in the low light given off by the wall sconces, his footfalls swallowed up completely in the thick tufted carpeting covering the wide oak stairs. The staccato beat of telegraph and teletype machines sounded from behind some of the half-closed doors to the second-floor suites that he passed on his way to the third floor, the small back room under the eaves, where his own radio set awaited.

He pulled the heavy drapes closed before he turned on the desk lamp. Blackout conditions were in effect; it was necessary to ensure that no bombing raids from his own side were able to get a visual fix on the estate and blow the entire Allied transmission base… along with himself… sky high.

One of the aides had thoughtfully brought up a fresh tea tray not too long ago; the pot was still piping hot under its cozy. Simon adjusted his headset, turned on the radio, and as the tubes warmed up he poured his customary cup of Earl Grey in anticipation of his evening's contact. With predictable German punctuality, the voice crackled over the small speaker at exactly the appointed hour.

"_Wolf In The Fold, this is Dagger… come in_."

Simon vastly preferred that code name to 'Black Sheep'… sometimes he thought if he heard the old 'have you any wool?' jab from his cohorts downstairs one more time, he might go mad. Who did you have to know in the Allied High Command to get a decent code name, anyway? "Dagger, this is Wolf in the Fold… I read you," he answered. "DuBois will leave the Three Bears' House tonight. Intercept on Hammelburg Road, midnight."

"_Understood. Dagger out."_

Done and dusted. Dagger, a.k.a. the local Gestapo, would meet DuBois at the rendezvous site. Simon had handled DuBois' escape personally and would have him met at the appointed time and place, just as he'd promised Colonel Hogan he would. He sipped his tea thoughtfully.

A fine night's work.


	10. Chapter 10

Another sleepless night for Hogan. There had been too many of those lately. By two a.m., he was well aware this was going to be another one. DuBois had left on schedule, but somehow that didn't make him feel better. Something still wasn't right. Maybe there were a _lot _of somethings that weren't right.

He turned on the small desk lamp, which he was pretty sure wouldn't be detected from outside the barracks and attract unwanted attention after lights-out, and from the pocket of his robe he extracted the item that was bugging him the most at the moment.

Before this week, he'd never have dreamed that his men kept so many secrets. This one was LeBeau's, and apparently he hadn't realized it was missing yet. Hogan had searched the storage locker containing their contraband food items while the men were at recreation that afternoon, and everything LeBeau kept squirreled away in there had looked perfectly A-OK. Except _this_.

What kind of French chef kept test tubes in his pantry?

There were two things about this that nagged at him. First of all, he didn't have a clue what was inside. The substance was vivid yellow, a very strange color in the first place, and it resembled fragile threads. What did this stuff have to do with food? Just as disturbing was the small rectangular white label on the side of the glass tube:

**NY14**

**19C**

That had absolutely norelation to _haute cuisine_, he was certain of it. More than anything else, it put him in mind of the periodic table of elements that he'd studied rather disinterestedly in high school. But this particular combination of letters and numbers didn't ring any bells with him. Could this be some new element, maybe something to do with the new bomb that was rumored to be in development, the one that required a supply of so-called 'heavy water'? If it was, what was LeBeau doing with it? And how long before he would realize it was missing?

A cold draft suddenly wafted over his bare feet. It came from the gap underneath his office door, and Hogan immediately reached to turn the desk lamp out. Maybe one of the guards _had _seen the faint light, and was coming in to read him the riot act for ignoring lights-out. He waited in the dark, listening. No footfalls from the outer barracks. Few of the guards were that light on their feet. Hogan crept silently to the door and cautiously opened it just a hair. There _was _someone in the barracks proper, just coming in from outside, barely visible in the faint light from the woodstove.

_Newkirk._

What the heck was Newkirk doing out in the compound at this hour, where he could be spotted or even shot? Hogan looked on in silence as the British corporal quietly removed his tunic and boots, then hoisted himself onto his upper bunk. Carter, in the lower bunk, was jostled enough to murmur in his sleep and turn over restlessly, but he didn't wake up.

_More_ secrets. More things that didn't add up. Now Hogan had **NY14/19C **on the one hand, and on the other he had a man sneaking out of the barracks at two o'clock in the morning for no authorized reason.

Was there _anybody _he could really trust?

oo 0 oo

The uniformed guard gestured for General Biedenbender to proceed through the cell block door ahead of him. As if he didn't know the drill by now. He never gave them any real trouble; there was no point in that. He made it a point to be discourteous, dismissive and downright rude to his captors on a daily basis, but that didn't bother them; as long as he didn't try to wrest any weapons away from them, they didn't seem to care how he treated them.

He would have preferred for Knatchbull-Quimby to escort him, of course, but the boy couldn't be expected to be everywhere. To prevent anyone from guessing there was an alliance between the two of them, the general had to force himself to take the occasional dull constitutional in the company of another orderly once in a while. It was a small enough price to pay to be assured that Colonel Hogan's situation was getting worse by the day. And young Simon appeared to be making very good use of his time outside of Wormwood Scrubs prison, judging from his regular updates.

The worst part of it all, actually, wasn't even the time spent in the company of the deadly dull, anonymous armed guard on the barren, windswept heath… it was the necessity of passing General Schmidt's cell twice, once on the way out and once on the return. When he was lucky, Schmidt ignored him. Today he was not so lucky.

"So, Biedenbender…" Schmidt sneered. "You allow the Englanders to walk you like a dog? Your shame is not yet complete enough?"

That walrus-faced womanizer knew _nothing _about how to conduct himself as an officer of the Third Reich. "You know something about shame, Schmidt," Biedenbender retorted in an even, almost bored tone of voice. "Colonel Hogan brought you into Stalag 13 tied up in the back of a truck, _ja_? Then tricked you into giving him the location of your secret base at Heidelheim. That is perhaps some new tactic to win the war that I have not been briefed on?"

"_Hogan…_" Schmidt hissed. For a moment Biedenbender thought he might actually spit. "I never want to hear that name again!"

"Then stop talking to me." Biedenbender kept walking. The weak-willed Schmidt sometimes still, even now, occasionally screamed that name in his sleep during the night, perpetually haunted by Hogan's cleverness, and Biedenbender was thoroughly sick of it by this time. Strangely, the one thing he and Schmidt agreed upon was Hogan, but he had such contempt for the man that he preferred not to acknowledge that they had ever had any common ground whatsoever.

oo 0 oo

Movie night at Stalag 13 held none of the hometown charm the prisoners recalled from their own stateside trips to the cinema. There was no concession stand with piping hot popcorn for sale; the snacks were strictly bring-your-own from Red Cross packages. There were no sexy girls on the screen; the feature was a late 1930's Charlie Chan movie. Worst of all, there were no pretty girls in the seats beside them, either… just the same scruffy barrackmates they were with day in and day out, their looks not much improved by the relative darkness inside the rec hall as the film rolled. Tops on most of their to-do lists for after the war: a drive-in and a hot date. It wouldn't matter what was playing; none of them would be watching the movie anyway.

In the back row, Carter leaned forward and tapped LeBeau on the shoulder. "Hey, Louis," he whispered, "could you spare a couple jujubes?"

LeBeau turned around to face him with a look of combined confusion and revulsion. "If I knew what those were, I'm sure I would not want to eat them in the first place."

"What's the matter, Carter; you forget this is a BYOC event?" Kinch kidded.

"I didn't forget… I ran out. I checked my footlocker before we came over here and I knew I didn't have any candy, but now I don't even have the can of sardines I was saving."

LeBeau shuddered. "If I have to sit this close to you, I'm glad someone took them."

Kinch leaned over toward Hogan. "Sounds like our petty thievery is still going on, Colonel."

After the pressure of the past several days Hogan knew that it might not take much to cause him to lose his cool, and it was all he could do to keep his voice down. "Didn't everybody get my order? _Knock it off! _We've got enough to worry about without that kind of thing going on. Get the word out… _again. _Whoever's doing the stealing better cut it out or he's gonna be real sorry."

"Yes, sir."

"The really weird thing," Carter continued, "is not just that the sardines are gone, but now I've got six more cigarettes than I had yesterday."

"You must have miscounted," said Kinch.

"Nope; I'm sure… I was out of jujubes _and _cigarettes yesterday, but now I've got a half-dozen of 'em. I don't get it."

If they could pay as much attention to fighting the war as they did on who had how many cigarettes, Hogan fumed, they'd probably be way out in front already. He didn't want to be here in the first place, but there had been no getting out of it; Klink had insisted that _all _the men attend the movie whether or not they wanted to, and that included himself… probably so the guards could toss the barracks, see if they could turn up any contraband. Being stuck here was a complete waste of time, but Klink had said everybody.

_Everybody_?

Hogan scanned the dimly-lit rec hall in the flickering light of the film that was unfolding on the white sheet hanging at the front of the room. He could see well enough to be quite sure that everybody _wasn't _here.

Where was Newkirk?

The film stopped all of a sudden and the lights came on. Most of the men, already not all that happy about being here in the first place, immediately objected with hoots and a few wadded-up balls of trash tossed at the screen. The boos and refuse-pitching increased when Klink himself entered and walked to the front of the room, planting himself firmly in front of the now-dark screen.

"The next man who makes a sound _or _a move will find himself in the cooler for thirty days!" the Kommandant announced. It was the threat of punishment, not respect for his authority, that shut his unruly and unwilling audience up almost at once.

"What's the big idea, Kommandant?" Hogan got to his feet. "You wanted us all here; the least you can do is let the men finish the movie."

"I intend to, Colonel… _after _I advise them, _and _you, that I am placing additional guards outside the wire on a twenty-four-hour basis. Any escape attempts you might be planning are therefore doomed to failure. For the good of you and your men, I would advise you to suspend any such activity immediately."

Hogan gave him a suspicious look. "Why the extra guards?"

"I am not required to give you a reason, but since you asked… I've just received word that an Underground agent was identified and pursued at the edge of Hammelburg, and with obvious Underground activity this close to the camp the Gestapo have stepped up their own vigilance and requested that I do the same."

_DuBois. _Things just kept getting worse and worse. _Pursued _probably meant just exactly that, though; Klink wouldn't hesitate to gloat about it if he'd actually been recaptured. Still… how could that have happened in the first place? Black Sheep had promised to handle it personally; what had gone wrong?

Klink gave the signal and stepped aside, the lights went back down, and the movie started to roll again. The men lined up on the benches settled back down and turned their attention back to the screen.

Newkirk entered from the back and slid into the seat next to Hogan. "Sorry I'm late… I miss anythin'?" he asked with the usual cocky grin.

Hogan didn't answer. _Something_ was missing around here, all right. And he was beginning to be afraid he had a pretty good idea what it might be.


	11. Chapter 11

Back in the barracks later that night, the looks on the men's faces were mute testimony to the fact that each and every one of them was completely blindsided.

Kinch was the first one to speak, and sounded as if he were certain he must have heard wrong. "_Not_ use the _tunnel_?"

"That's what I said," Hogan nodded. "I don't want anybody down there at all until further notice. That includes the darkroom, the lab, the radio room, everything below ground."

"But why?" LeBeau inquired.

_Because I'm a colonel, that's why! _But that wasn't what he said, as tempting as it was. "Klink's not kidding about the patrols; we can't risk going in and out right now."

"But we've got supplies and such down there that we need," Newkirk protested. "We can't just…"

"You heard me. No tunnel access until further notice, and that means all of you. That's an order. Now get the lights out and hit the sack."

After the colonel had entered his private quarters and closed the door, the other four men met in a huddle. "What's _that_ all about?" Kinch wondered.

"Something big must be up," LeBeau nodded.

"So why won't the colonel tell us what it is?" Carter asked.

"You're wastin' your time trying to figure out an officer, you are," Newkirk informed him. "Don't bother askin' no questions."

Carter thought for a moment. "Well, in the movie tonight Charlie Chan said 'questions are key to door of knowledge."

"That's one door _you_ ain't never likely to find the key for."

oo 0 oo

Hogan climbed down the ladder to the radio room and looked around. Nobody here. Just as he'd ordered. And everything about it felt wrong.

The men had behaved rather distantly toward him this morning, getting ready for roll call quietly, without the usual griping and complaining that was part of the normal morning routine. They had filed out on time without even making Schultz come in to _raus _them, stood in formation in silence, and then gone on to the assigned time-wasting busywork of collecting litter in the compound without waiting for anyone to get on their case about it. That was all pretty strange… yet it left him free to re-enter the barracks and go down into the tunnel, where he'd forbidden them to follow. Yeah, this felt all wrong.

Just to be sure, he took a quick sweep of the surrounding branch tunnels near the radio room. Nobody down there, as it should be. He fired up the set, hoping there was _somebody _at least who knew what had gone wrong.

"Papa Bear to Black Sheep… Papa Bear to Black Sheep."

oo 0 oo

If it had been any other voice except Hogan's coming over the wireless, Simon would have been seriously irked at the fact that he hadn't yet finished his breakfast. Since it _was _Hogan, however, he willingly set aside his soft-boiled egg on toast and picked up the microphone, discreetly touching a napkin to his lips. "Black Sheep here… go ahead, Papa Bear."

"_Bakery is one loaf short of French bread… what gives?"_

If there were prizes for inane code-speak, the Allies would certainly take the blue ribbon, Simon thought to himself. French bread, indeed. "Apologies, Papa Bear… French bread almost delivered to wrong customer." That was the roundabout way of saying the Gestapo had very nearly recaptured DuBois the night before last… the fact that they had lost him in the woods spoke only to _their_ carelessness and not to his own; he had done everything except giftwrap the Frenchman and leave him on their doorstep. That was the Gestapo: all brawn and no brain.

"_Why so sloppy? Delivery was guaranteed."_

Hogan wasn't mincing words. Good. His back was to the wall and that was exactly where they wanted him. General Biedenbender would be pleased. "Misdelivery not from one of our vans, Papa Bear… suggest you check with your local bakers." The message there was quite clear.

"_My men are all on the up and up_," Hogan shot back without missing a beat.

"I'm afraid the evidence doesn't support that at all." Simon smiled to himself.

There was a pause… Hogan counting to ten, he supposed. "_Where is French bread now?_"

"Lost in the post at the moment. Will advise you when it turns up. But really, old chap… how much more proof do you need? One of your boys has gone bad… gone over."

"_I still don't buy that._"

"How else can you explain misdelivery?"

Another pause. "_I can't… yet._"

"If I were you I'd want to hurry it along… before any other baked goods go missing."

"_I'll be in touch. Papa Bear out._"

Hogan didn't even wait for an acknowledgement before breaking the connection. 'Off-balance' would likely be an understatement. Simon calmly returned to his only-slightly-cooled breakfast. It was going to be a good day, if the way it was starting out was any indication.

oo 0 oo

Hogan immediately regretted the force with which he slammed the microphone down on the desk, and hoped he hadn't done any serious damage. He had to be careful not to break the radio if he wasn't going to allow Kinch down here to fix it.

A sound from behind him, _far_ behind, caught his attention. Maybe an echo from the microphone hitting the desk? He listened more closely. Nothing. No, wait… _something_.

Hogan headed down the tunnel towards the emergency exit, the same area he'd checked just a few minutes before.

The small trapdoor in the floor that served as the Barracks Three entrance to the tunnel was askew. It hadn't been that way just a few minutes ago; Hogan was sure of it. He swiftly climbed the ladder and paused at the top. Nobody in sight… but the barracks door was ajar. Whoever had been down here just now had been in a big hurry, too big a hurry to close the trap completely or the barracks door behind him. Probably knew he was about to get nabbed. Whoever he was.

Hogan hoisted himself up into the empty barracks and went to the window. Outside, he could see all four of his key team: Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter, all carrying burlap sacks over their shoulders and picking up trash and cigarette butts just as they were supposed to be doing.

Was he getting paranoid? Was he losing his ability to maintain control of this situation? There was nothing wrong here that he could see, and yet… how could DuBois have been intercepted by the Gestapo, if one of those four men out there hadn't had a hand in it?

He closed both the barracks door and the trap as he retreated back into the tunnel. Something was going to give. Something was about to break. It _had _to.

And it did.

A small, round object laying in the dirt underneath the ladder caught Hogan's eye, and he bent to pick it up. It was a coin. A British half-penny, to be exact… "ha'penny", as Newkirk always pronounced it when referring to the lucky piece he kept in his pocket.

The pocket with the hole in it.

Newkirk's luck had just run out.

oo 0 oo

Matters hadn't improved any by late afternoon.

Kinch slammed down the lid of his footlocker. "Okay, now I'm getting steamed… now somebody swiped one of my t-shirts _and _a can of powdered milk." He held up two candy bars. "And he left these. Is this some kind of a joke? Because if it is, it's not very funny. How am I supposed to wear _this_?"

"You wouldn't want to trade those for my extra cigarettes, would you?" Carter asked. "There's another movie Friday night… I don't know if I can make it through another picture without some candy."

Schultz pushed the door open and lumbered inside. "Everybody out for roll call, _raus_!"

"Hey, Schultz, you can be honest with us… is one of the guards stealing our stuff?" LeBeau inquired.

Schultz looked deeply offended. "It is against regulations for the guards to take _anything whatsoever _from the prisoners for _any _reason!" he declared loudly.

"Yeah? That don't seem to stop _you_," Newkirk pointed out.

The obligatory official denial over with, Schultz lowered his voice and beckoned the men to come a bit closer so he could speak confidentially. "There _is _a guard who is a stealer, we think… there are things missing from the guards' barracks that _nobody _can find."

"No kiddin'?" Carter asked. "What gets left in their place? Cigarettes? Candy bars?"

Schultz looked truly confused. "What are you, crazy? Stealers _steal_ things; they don't give things back."

"Now, that's interesting," Kinch mused. "So this tooth-fairy act, take one thing and leave something else, is only for the prisoners, not the guards."

Hogan exited his office, pulling on his jacket. "Roll call, Schultz?"

"_Jawohl."_

"Okay, fellas, let's go."

The men filed out quietly, in an orderly fashion, without a word to their colonel. Schultz looked after them with concern. "Are they sick?"

In a way, Hogan admitted to himself. Sick of being left out of the loop, sick of not being told what was going on. He couldn't say that he blamed them. "Sometimes war isn't easy, Schultz."

"Huh… you're telling _me_."

Hogan held out his hand. Schultz screwed up his features in an expression that was a combination of frustration and guilt, then pulled a waxed-paper packet of gumdrops out of his coat pocket and dropped it into the colonel's palm. "_Spasibo,_" Hogan said.

"What's that?"

"It's 'thank you' in Russian… seeing as you're so determined to go, I thought it might be a good idea if you knew a little bit of the language."

"Don't _say _that…" the sergeant cringed. "I'll be better; I _promise_..."

"You'd _better _be better, or your new barracks will be a snow fort. And brother, are _you _gonna have a white Christmas."

Hogan took his place in the formation next to Newkirk. The British corporal's eyes were locked straight ahead; very unusual for Newkirk to be not only present, but correct. He seemed to be doing everything he could to ignore the fact that the colonel was even standing there. None of the men had said much to Hogan this morning, above and beyond what was absolutely necessary, but Newkirk hadn't said a single word to him at all.

Hogan didn't like the way things were adding up. It was hard to believe… but he was pretty sure he had his traitor.


	12. Chapter 12

Newkirk moved swiftly down the tunnel towards the radio room. He wasn't late, not yet… if he moved right along he knew he could still make it out of the underground network and back to the barracks the roundabout way before the rest of the men returned inside for the evening meal and the fellows began wondering where he was.

He couldn't have been more surprised to come around the corner into the radio room to be met head-on by Colonel Hogan, who looked like he had something much more serious than being late for chow to discuss with him. Nothing unusual about finding the colonel in the radio room, of course. But the fact that the American officer was leveling a semi-automatic pistol directly at his chest definitely took Newkirk by complete surprise. Reflexively he slowly raised his hands in the customary response to such circumstances… after all these years a prisoner, he knew the drill. "Colonel…?" he managed tentatively, scarcely able to believe his own eyes. Had his commanding officer gone crackers in the short time he'd been gone?

"I want to know and I want to know now… what are you doing down here after I gave specific orders to stay _out _of the tunnel?"

Newkirk had heard the colonel's voice that hard and cold before on numerous occasions… never directed at anyone on the same side as he was, though. This was high-level stuff, no doubt about it. He meant business. "Sir, I… uh…"

"No stalling! I know you, Newkirk; you're one hell of a flim-flam man but that's _not _what I want from you right now! What are you doing down here?"

"I… I was…"

He was looking for a convincing lie; that was what he was doing. Nobody lied as smoothly and effortlessly as the British corporal… that talent was a valuable asset to them most of the time, but at the moment it was just one more possible reason to end up having to pull that trigger tonight. "Okay, I'll make it easy for you. You don't even have to talk. You can _show_ me what you were up to, or one of us isn't leaving."

Given that choice… _some choice_… Newkirk nodded and turned around very slowly, hands still in the air, and began to head back down the tunnel in the direction from which he'd come. "I can explain everything, sir…"

"I sure hope so, Corporal." In his career as an officer, Hogan had occasionally been required to write letters of condolence to the families of men who had not made it through the war alive, but never to the family of a man he himself had killed, and he sure didn't relish the idea of having to try and compose one to Newkirk's sister Mavis in England. There was nothing in either the officer's manual or Emily Post that would help him there.

_Dear Miss Newkirk… It is with great regret that I write to inform you that I had to shoot your brother Peter, but up to then I really liked the guy…_

Past LeBeau's wine cellar and the short spur that led to the cooler was a dead-end that veered off to the left. This was a work in progress; when it was finished they'd have a secondary way to get in and out of the emergency tunnel… for _serious _emergencies. It was worked only very occasionally, hardly at all over the past two or three months since they'd had their hands full with other business that had a higher priority. Nobody had been down here, and nobody had had any _business_ being down here, for weeks. Yet here was Newkirk. What was he hiding in this remote location? What was such a big secret that he was keeping it way down here, where he knew nobody else would stumble upon it by accident?

Newkirk paused, stood to one side, and gestured with the thumb of one raised hand into the void in front of him. A short, sharp, high-pitched sound startled Hogan momentarily… then when he heard it a second time, he realized what it was.

A puppy barking.

oo 0 oo

Newkirk's lucky halfpenny was on the bench where Hogan had put it, but the corporal hadn't yet quite dared to reclaim it. His promised explanation was in progress, and he wanted to be sure he lived to finish it.

"I couldn't let 'em _do_ it, sir… I just couldn't."

As much as Hogan had doubted it while he had been following the corporal to his deep dark secret stashed in the farthest reaches of the tunnel system, it actually did make perfect sense. In an insane, you-gotta-be-kidding-me kind of a way. Leave it to Newkirk. This was by far the craziest one yet.

Everyone was down there now; his earlier order having been immediately rescinded once it had become clear not only that nothing was wrong, but that Newkirk was in need of a little of the old 'safety in numbers'. Carter sat cross-legged on the floor with the frisky, now quite healthy-looking pup jumping around in his lap, while nearby LeBeau spooned some minced beef scraps into a tin plate, and Kinch added an old blanket on top of the folded t-shirt already lining the bottom of the empty Red Cross carton that was serving as a doggie bed… a t-shirt that had _Kinchloe J _stenciled on the back of the collar and looked very familiar. Hogan had long since put the gun away. He was still having trouble believing all this, but he was finally sure that at least there was definitely nobody here he would have to shoot. "Of all the…"

"When I saw what the Krauts were gonna do to him I snuck into the guards' barracks, nicked him and brought him down here. He just needed a bit of help, is all." Newkirk risked a proud, almost paternal smile. "He's gettin' big, ain't he?"

That he was. On Uncle Sam's U.S. Government canned milk and Spam… empty tins were strewn all over. Some German Shepherd _that _silly mutt was turning out to be. It might _look_ like a puppy, but it _ate_ like a draft horse. Finally, all the previously-missing pieces were now here and beginning to fit together. "The petty thefts, of course…" Hogan nodded.

"Well, he needed some things I didn't have… the powdered milk and such. I lifted a bunch of stuff from the guards' quarters late at night, and I did take a few things from me mates as well… but strictly speakin', I _paid_ for those with what I _did_ have."

"Yeah," Carter laughed. "Puppies don't smoke."

"Newkirk, you should have just _asked_ us for the stuff," Kinch told him, giving him a chummy cuff on the shoulder. "You dope. Talk about doing things the hard way. We would've helped you; you knew how bad we all felt about the little guy."

"Well, I didn't want anybody else gettin' into trouble over me little Winston, did I?"

"_Winston_?" LeBeau rolled his eyes. "_Oh, là là_… what do you think Churchill would say to that? You gave his name to a _Boche _dog. I would _never _do that to DeGaulle."

"By the way," Kinch went on, "where are my socks?"

"Oh… well… he, uh… ate 'em," Newkirk admitted.

"He _ate _them?"

"He's a right little termite, he is… chews up everything in sight."

"Just out of idle curiosity, Newkirk, what are you planning to _do _with this dog when he gets to be as big as his namesake and starts eating things bigger than Kinch's socks?" Hogan inquired.

"I, uh… hadn't thought that far ahead, sir," the corporal was forced to admit.

Newkirk was visibly nervous when he spoke to Hogan, and it wasn't just the fact that his secret was out. Hogan understood perfectly well that his own overreaction had rattled the corporal significantly… nobody liked having a gun pointed at him, much less someone who was supposed to be on the same side. That had been _way _too close. He didn't even like to think about the way it _could_ have turned out, if he'd been a little too quick on the trigger.

As for Newkirk, he felt he'd come clean, acknowledged that he'd been behaving suspiciously, disobeyed direct orders, been secretive, left the barracks at night without permission, told a few lies, been responsible for the petty thefts that had had everyone on edge, and he now denied none of it… but even all of that added together didn't justify what had happened in the tunnel earlier. That had been the _guv'nor _ready to put a bullet in him if his answers hadn't been satisfactory… that not only rattled the corporal; it _hurt._

Well, someone had to ask, and it might as well be him, since he was already in muck up to his neck… Newkirk had never pulled any punches before, so there seemed to be no reason to start now. But he still took up his ha'penny in hand before he spoke, and curled his fingers around it tightly, hoping to squeeze a little extra luck out of it… he had never needed it more than he did right now. "I still don't get it. What's goin' on, Colonel?"

Hogan nodded grimly. "Okay. It's cards on the table time. But I can promise you guys you're not gonna like it."


	13. Chapter 13

For a moment not one of them could think of a single word to say in response to what Hogan had just told them. But someone had to be first. As it happened, their volatile French chef was the first to reach a full boil. "One of _us_? A _traitor_?" LeBeau demanded of his colonel with what Hogan acknowledged was justifiable fury under the circumstances.

"_Us_?" Carter's mouth hung open in complete disbelief for a few seconds. "I mean… _us_?"

"Well, thank you very much for that vote of confidence!" Newkirk bellowed. "And here we were thinkin' we were all on the same side!"

Even Kinch, normally the steadiest ship in the fleet, seemed completely taken aback for once. "Now, wait just a minute, Colonel…"

Hogan held up his hands for silence. Nice try. For once, nobody cared what he wanted, and the outraged voices only escalated as they all competed to be heard. After a few seconds he had to holler back just to get their attention. "Okay, pipe down! All of you! I said I'd explain it, and I _will_!"

"What's to explain?" Newkirk wound on. "Our own commandin' officer thinks we've gone over! We get more respect from the Krauts!"

Hogan knew he was in real danger of losing control of the situation if he couldn't get it back in his pocket, pronto. "My first responsibility is to protect the lives of every man in this unit! I said their _lives_, _not_ their feelings! If I stepped all over yours, you need to forget about that for now, because we've got real problems!"

"_I'll_ say we have! That _was _you pointin' a loaded gun at me earlier tonight, am I right?"

Kinch, a little apprehensive that the next thing the outraged Englishman might throw at the American officer might be a right cross instead of an insult, stepped in to get a secure grip on Newkirk's elbow. "I want to hear this, Newkirk… ease off."

"Whose side are _you _on?" he challenged.

"For now, I'm on _my _side." The sergeant tipped a meaningful glance in Hogan's direction. "Later on, we'll see."

So that was how it was. Okay. Hogan got it. And he couldn't blame them… no, not even Kinch… for their response to what they had just learned. He had some heavy explaining to do, and he knew he'd better make it good. "Now listen up! If Hermann Goering showed up at the front gate and told me one of my men was a traitor, I'd laugh in his fat face! I'd consider the source! But this is _London_, the same London that gives us our orders. If I'd laughed it off, and _if_ I'd been wrong, three of you guys could be dead right now! If you think I've been a pretty lousy colonel lately, I'd have been an even _worse _one if I'd let that happen. We've all seen someone we _thought _was on our side turn out to be rotten. I had information I didn't like the sound of, but I treated it with the caution I thought it deserved. I had the lives of everybody in this room in my hands, and I did what I had to do. If you guys don't like it, that's too bad… you're all still alive, and let me tell you something, things could be a _lot _worse."

Hard to argue with that. Kinch, still quietly resentful at the shocking breach of trust, had to admit it. Carter, wearing the empty-eyed, betrayed look of a kid who'd just discovered the father he idolized drinking the milk he'd left out for Santa Claus, was beginning to come around as well. The hot-tempered English and French blood in the vicinity was still bubbling, but it had at least diminished from a full boil to a simmer.

"All right, then…" Hogan took a deep breath, finally beginning to hope that he was getting things back under a modicum of control. "Like I said… we can talk about this later. I'm sure you'll all have plenty to say, and I can promise you I'll listen to it. But for right now, we've got a big problem, and it belongs to all of us."

"Who's the _real_ traitor," Kinch summed up.

"Right. Somebody blew the whistle on DuBois' mission to blow the railway tunnel, somebody ratted him out to the Gestapo when he left here, and somebody's got _us_ over a barrel. If it's not one of you… and I'm convinced it's _not_…"

"Thanks loads…" Newkirk grumbled. "Touchin', really."

"Then the only logical conclusion is that it's _London_… or, more exactly, our contact in London."

"But Black Sheep has been our primary contact for six months," LeBeau protested. "Everything's been all right up to now. How could it be him?"

"Who else except the five of us knew about DuBois' sabotage mission at the railway tunnel and could have sent the Gestapo out to intercept them?" Hogan asked. "Who else knew DuBois was leaving here the other night, at precisely what time, and exactly where he was headed? Besides that, Black Sheep knew to go to the eyes-only code to make this all look legit, and that's something you guys didn't even know about."

That was for sure… and it was good for a few more suspicious glances between the four enlisted men. What was this about an eyes-only code, and why was this the first they'd ever even heard about it? They'd been so sure up to today that all five of them were pulling in the same direction the whole time, with no secrets or hidden agendas. Well, so much for that. They'd been in the dark all this time and hadn't even realized it. The colonel had been holding out on them, big time.

Their reaction wasn't lost on Hogan. "This was all _designed_ to put us off balance… put _me_ off balance. And it worked." He set his teeth firmly together and gave a grudging nod. "It worked… he's got us right where he wants us, questioning everything we see and hear, even from each other. If we don't trust one another, we've got nothin'. By the way…" Hogan drew the test tube with the odd yellow substance inside it out of his pocket and handed it to LeBeau. "Just out of curiosity… what _is _this stuff?"

LeBeau gasped and reached for the test tube as if it contained a fortune in diamonds. "My saffron!"

"_Saffron_?"

The chef cradled it reverently once it was safe in his hands again. "Do you know what this costs in a _regular _market, let alone the black market in wartime? This may be the only saffron in Germany!"

Hogan still didn't get it. "Since when do you keep spices in a test tube?"

LeBeau looked horrified. "Saffron is not 'spices'; it's _saffron_," he said, in a tone of voice he might have used to try and explain a very simple concept to a doorknob. When cooking was involved, all respect for rank went out the window; he'd say just about anything to anybody on either side of the war and just plain didn't care about the potential consequences. "It must be kept in a closed container to hold its flavor. I saw that Carter had a whole box of test tubes down in the tunnel with corks already in them and I just borrowed one, that's all."

"See?" Newkirk pressed. "So I ain't the _only_ one who 'borrows' a few things here and there. Do me a favor and remember that in future."

"So what's that label on it mean?" Hogan continued. "NY14, 19C?"

LeBeau shrugged. "How should I know? There were twelve of them in the same box and there was a label like that on all of them. They were all empty."

"Carter?"

Carter peered at the small white sticker from over LeBeau's shoulder, not daring to put so much as a finger on the precious contents since he didn't want his hand broken off at the wrist by a hopping-mad chef, and nodded knowingly. "Oh yeah… that last bunch of lab equipment the supply plane dropped off came from a different place than usual. I guess the Army's getting low on test tubes or something… they got these wholesale from a Woolworth's in New York City. NY14 is the postal code."

Hogan had been sure he couldn't feel any worse than he already did, but that news sure did the trick. All that suspicion, and where had it gotten him? He'd gone from periodic table to postal code in two seconds... that was a new personal low. Well, there was only one thing left for him to do… get the rest of the story, and take it like a man. He braced himself for the worst. "So what's 19C?"

"Um… I think it's the price tag."

"Sorry I asked."

"You don't trust _none_ of us no more, do you?" Newkirk accused. "Maybe I oughta start makin' out me will in case the next order you get from London is take ol' Newkirk out and shoot him!"

The expression on Hogan's face suddenly changed from sheepish to pensive. "Yeah…" he mused. "Why not…?"

"Now _wait_ just a _minute_!" Newkirk protested loudly.

Carter moved slowly and deliberately between the colonel and the corporal, not at all sure he liked whatever was going through Hogan's head at the moment… after all, the man still had a loaded gun in his pocket. "You don't… you don't _mean_ that… _do_ you, sir…?"

"_No_, I mean _fake _it," Hogan clarified. "I've got an idea." In fact, it had been their initial reaction that had inspired it. "But I need all of you to pull it off."

Did he _have_ them, after all this? He honestly wasn't sure. Until Kinch… and then LeBeau… and then Carter… and then finally Newkirk, who seemed to think he was acting against his own better judgment… nodded. It wasn't enthusiasm, but it was agreement… and that was enough for now.

"Okay…" the colonel nodded. "So here's the plan."


	14. Chapter 14

"Okay, we've only got one shot. Let's make this good."

Hogan signaled to Kinch to initiate the radio connection, and then took the microphone in hand. "Papa Bear to Black Sheep; Papa Bear to Black Sheep… come in."

Static crackled over the air, then came the reply. "_Papa Bear, this is Black Sheep… I read you._"

Hogan's hand tightened on the mike almost unconsciously. Black Sheep had played him like a piano… made him suspicious of his own men… forced him to let doubt and mistrust nearly ruin their whole operation. There'd be payback for that, but that would come later. What he had to do now was subtly shift the balance of power back in their favor. "Reporting that the situation has been resolved… repeat, situation resolved."

There was a pause, then the voice continued. "_Clarify, Papa Bear_…"

"I identified the traitor… it was Corporal Newkirk. He's been taken care of."

"_You mean_…" Another pause. "_You've __eliminated__ him_?"

"Yeah." Standing nearby, LeBeau, Kinch and Carter respectfully removed their hats in honor of the dearly not-so-departed, causing Newkirk to bite his lip to keep from chuckling.

"_Any chance an investigation could lead back to you at Stalag 13?_"

"He's at the bottom of the Dusseldorf River in civilian clothes, with no papers and a couple of strategically-placed bullet holes in his back… he's not gonna tell anybody anything."

Newkirk's self-satisfied smirk faded a bit and he tugged nervously at his collar… well, _that_ was a fairly unpleasant mental image that had just lit up in his brain. He hadn't entirely gotten over that encounter in the tunnel with Hogan pointing that loaded pistol at some of the most vital of his organs. If Hogan had been the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later type of officer, that might be _exactly _the condition he'd be in right now.

"_Excellent, Papa Bear. Well done_."

"Yeah… thanks… I guess." Hogan's tone was still flat and angry, completely appropriate for the subject matter even though he was performing like a day player on the Chase & Sanborn Hour at the moment… he knew as well as Newkirk did that with a little less luck, he might not have all four of his men standing in front of him right now. That he had been capable of allowing himself to be pulled into this ruse in the first place still rankled; he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to completely forgive himself, and he wouldn't be so surprised if the boys couldn't either. Another issue they would tackle later.

"_I'm sure it was difficult, but you had no choice. Newkirk was a threat to your entire operation. It had to be done_."

LeBeau reverently crossed himself. Kinch folded his hands in silent prayer. Carter gazed soulfully upwards towards heaven… _that _was a bit of a stretch, Hogan couldn't help thinking. _Newkirk_? Well, anything was possible… For his part, Newkirk flicked an imaginary tear from his lower lashes and did his best to look appropriately moved at the touching outpouring of 'grief' from his mates. Alas, poor Peter… they had known him well.

"Our beloved Kommandant just lost his perfect no-escapes record, so he's pretty steamed," Hogan continued. "The rest of the boys and I will keep up the operation as best we can."

"_Hate to put this to you, Papa Bear, but… there remains the possibility that there could be more than one traitor in your unit. Newkirk may have had an accomplice_."

Hogan had been half-expecting this, and it was a good thing, because even knowing it might be coming he felt a hot wash of fresh rage well up inside him that was difficult to suppress. So was _this_ the game; trying to see how many times he would let his men down, even how many he might be willing to take out in the face of all this paranoia Black Sheep was trying to instill in him? Black Sheep thought Hogan had killed Newkirk in cold blood and that wasn't enough? But he got a grip on himself and willed himself to play along. "You _mean_…?" he gasped.

"_I'll try to get some additional information for you by later this week… I have a few leads_."

He'd just bet, Hogan fumed… a nice neat collection of freshly invented lies about Kinch, about LeBeau, about Carter. "Look, if you have information that I need to protect myself and my operation, I need it fast! I'm not just gonna sit here and let them… wait a second; hold on…" He made eye contact with Kinch, mouthed the word _now_ and pointed directly at the sergeant, who took one step forward towards the microphone. All the better to be heard clearly on the other end.

"Colonel Hogan, we need to speak with you… urgently."

Hogan deliberately left the 'send' button pressed and the broadcast channel open. They wanted an audience, after all… they'd been rehearsing for an hour. "I thought I gave orders for everyone to remain topside until further notice."

Now LeBeau took a step forward. "This can't wait, _Colonel_. What you did to Newkirk… that was _not_ right, and you know it."

"An order's an order, Corporal!" Hogan barked.

"Some of your orders seem a little _off_ lately, _sir_," Carter spoke up in turn. Yes, even Carter could sound pretty scary when he tried.

Hogan gave all three of them a big thumbs-up, since he couldn't applaud, then turned his attention back to the microphone. "Black Sheep, I'll get back to you…"

"_Now_, Colonel," Kinch finished off in his most forceful manner.

"Who do you think you…" Hogan reached up and yanked hard on the wires that connected to the bus bar, suddenly separating them from their connections and bringing his conversation with Black Sheep to an abrupt, and he hoped suspicious-sounding, end. "That oughta do it," he said with confidence. "So since he's probably thinking that you guys are turning on me, finishing me off and dropping me in the river to keep Newkirk's corpse company, our friend Black Sheep must be pretty satisfied."

"And he's about to get a _big _surprise," Kinch grinned.

"You got it. So…" He handed the microphone to the sergeant and gestured to the wires. "See if you can clean up that mess I just made, then call General Gaines in London… who had better still be on _our_ side, or else I just might punch out of this screwy war… and ask him to send a plane for me tomorrow night. I'm going to London to meet Black Sheep face to face… and I'm gonna shear him." He turned to Newkirk. "I'll need a civilian suit and topcoat for the trip, you dirty rotten traitor… something that'll dry-clean well, since it's probably gonna come back with a few nasty stains on it. White wouldn't be practical for what I've got in mind."

"Right you are, guv'nor." Newkirk headed immediately for the wardrobe. In spite of it all, this much would be his pleasure.

oo 0 oo

Dusk had fallen on Woodlands Park House. In the dimly-lit third-floor attic room, with heavy blackout drapes over the only window, Simon Knatchbull-Quimby removed the radio headset slowly and set it down on the desk, then switched the set off. Well. This had gone smashingly. He had been certain Hogan would require more prompting, more forcefulness, more manufactured evidence before he would be willing to definitively identify one of his men as a traitor and take the necessary steps. How very accommodating.

The young man allowed himself a smooth, confident smile as he lifted the steel infuser filled with Earl Grey out of the brown ceramic pot of steaming water the attendant had brought up a few minutes earlier, and poured himself a cup. There was time for a spot of tea before advising General Biedenbender of the latest development.

Their Colonel Hogan was a murderer.

oo 0 oo

It was a dark brown, double-breasted, moisture-repellent topcoat that Newkirk had chosen for Hogan's journey… stylish, elegant, well-suited for London's blustery autumn weather, and stain-resistant. Blood was always a challenge to shift, even from rain gear, but he thought this would do the trick.

"What should the rest of us do while you're gone, _Colonel_?" LeBeau asked.

"You and Carter and Kinch get back upstairs and try to keep Schultz from looking around too much… remind him that it's bad for his health."

"And me, sir?" Newkirk asked.

"Stay in the tunnel so it'll look like you've escaped. If… I mean _when_… Black Sheep checks up on the bedtime story I told him, if he hears that you're right in the barracks where you belong, the whole thing goes sour. Klink will think you're only _missing_, but to Black Sheep it'll look like everything I told him over the radio was the truth... and it'll look even better that _I'm _gone. I'll miss some roll calls but I'll be back as soon as I can… you guys do what you can to cover for me, but when that stops working just tell Schultz I sneaked out of camp to look for Newkirk."

Newkirk looked pensive. "That's a long time to sit playin' solitaire."

LeBeau elbowed his friend. "You could use the time to sew up the hole in your pocket."

"Why don't you fairmay la boosh?"

"Colonel, if you want," Carter spoke up, "you could 'shoot' me too, so Newkirk'd have a second for gin."

"I don't think Black Sheep will be satisfied until I 'shoot' a fourth for bridge." Hogan made one last quick check of his travel documents. "Okay, fellas… hold the fort until I get back. I hope I'll have some good news for you real soon."

No one said a word as they watched him go up the ladder. It went without saying that they would be ready for some good news as quickly as they could get it.


	15. Chapter 15

Another night, another roll call. Schultz was standing in his usual place waiting for the men to file out of the barracks and line up. He wasn't hurrying them as he often did, though. He was in no hurry himself. Schultz was never eager to complete a roll call when he already knew he wasn't going to make it to _fünf_z_ehn…_ it was bad enough the times he wasn't _sure_ how many prisoners would actually be present and accounted for, but this time there was absolutely no reason to rush the roll call. If he could have put it off until the _next _war, he would have been more than happy to.

It was going to be hard for Schultz to count them with his eyes closed, the men noted with amusement. They knew exactly what it was he didn't want to see: that big gap in the front row where Newkirk usually stood, but hadn't occupied for the past two roll calls. It was bad enough that Klink was on the warpath, everyone was pulling extra shifts, there were guards and dogs all over the woods looking for the missing Englishman who at this very moment was right beneath them in the tunnel. Well, they had more bad news for Schultz tonight, and by extension, for Colonel Klink as well… there was going to be another gap in tonight's formation. One that would be even more impossible to try and ignore.

Schultz started from his own right as usual, pointing at each prisoner one by one, snapping off the usual consecutive string of numbers. His rhythm broke and his voice wavered a bit when he got to _dreizehn, _which Newkirk should have been; Schultz allowed himself one brief, hopeful peek to see if by some merciful miracle the Englander's familiar grin might greet him from underneath the bright blue peaked cap, the way it did on _good_ days, but no such luck. Visibly discouraged, he continued with _dreizehn _as he pointed to Kinch, then opened his mouth to say _fierzehn_… but there was no fourteenth prisoner at the end of his pointed finger. There was no…

"Colonel _Hogan_…" Schultz uttered a low, strangled groan. "Where is _Colonel_ _Hogan_…?"

"Who?" Kinch asked, just for the fun of it.

"You _know_ who Colonel Hogan is! Now you tell me _where _he is!" Suddenly a lightbulb of sorts went on over his metal helmet. "Ah… he is in the barracks… I will go and get…"

"I can save you a few steps, Schultz… he's not _in_ the barracks."

"In… the recreation hall…?" Sometimes Schultz's hopefulness truly knew no bounds.

"Nope."

"_Where, _then?"

"You sure you want to know?" Carter asked.

"Yes. _No._"

"Y'know, that's what I like about you, Schultz. You really cover all your bases. You're very thorough."

"This is not funny!"

Carter snickered. "You're not lookin' at it from our angle."

The men in the ranks all laughed, just as Klink exited his office and stalked across the compound towards them. "And just _what _is so amusing this evening, gentlemen?"

"Do you want to tell him, Schultzie, or should we?" LeBeau inquired, prompting another wave of laughter.

By now more or less resigned to his fate, Schultz turned around to face his superior officer and saluted with a trembling hand. "_Herr Kommandant... _I… I beg to report…"

"What _is_ it?"

"There is… a prisoner missing."

"I _know _there is a prisoner missing! We already have every available guard out in the woods with dogs, looking for the Englander!"

"Then I think we're going to need some more guards…" The sergeant shifted uncomfortably in his extra-wide boots. "_And_ some more dogs…"

"What are you talking about?"

Schultz was stuck; he literally didn't seem to be able to shake the words from his lips. Kinch stepped in to help him out. "Kommandant, Colonel Hogan isn't in camp, sir. He sneaked out a little while ago to look for Newkirk… he's worried about what the guards will do to Newkirk when they find him."

"Hogan should be _more_ worried about what _I'm_ going to do to _him_! Schultz, sound the alarm, let loose the dogs!" Klink knotted his gloved fist around his ever-present riding crop. "_If_ there _are _any…"

oo 0 oo

It wasn't hard to find Newkirk… all the prisoners had to do was follow the pungent aroma of one of Klink's best cigars down the tunnel to the spot where the Englishman sat with his feet up on the telephone switchboard, puffing away, with Winston curled up asleep on his lap. "Well, if this ain't the life," Kinch remarked. "Churchill himself hasn't got it this good."

"So let's not tell him," Newkirk replied. He took another long draw on the cigar and puffed out a smoke ring.

"You should see what's going on up there," Carter told him. "Boy, is Klink mad. When he found out Colonel Hogan was gone, steam came out of his ears."

"I could have cooked a bunch of asparagus on both sides of his head," LeBeau agreed with a chuckle.

Kinch glanced at his watch. "The colonel should be in London by now."

"I wonder when we'll hear something from him."

"He can take his time about it," Newkirk said. "I could do with a bit of a rest."

"You're not still mad, are you?" Carter asked, sounding a little afraid of the answer.

"Who, me? Course not. I _like_ havin' Americans point loaded guns at me. Matter of fact, I enjoyed it so much I'm thinkin' of askin' some of the fellows here in camp to do it once in a while, just for a kick, y'know. You can have a go if you like."

"The colonel explained why he did it…"

"Sure he did," Newkirk nodded. "He did it 'cause he don't trust us."

"Speak for yourself," LeBeau interjected. "He wasn't pointing anything at _me._"

"He don't trust you either, Louis."

"That's not true."

"It is, and you know it. You and your bleedin' saffron. You were there, I was there, we _all _were there. The colonel don't trust us, and if you ask me we can't trust him either after this."

"That's a lousy thing to say," Carter put in.

Three heads turned towards him. Carter seldom went in a completely different direction than the others; he wandered off on his own odd tangents every now and then, sure, but it was seldom a question of firm intent to disagree with the others. These quiet few words, then, had everyone else's attention immediately, and as soon as he realized it he grew visibly uncomfortable. "Well… it is," he insisted, jamming both hands into his pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"You mind explainin' that?" Newkirk challenged.

Carter swallowed hard. "I mean… the colonel really took one for the team on this one, didn't he? Think about it. That was probably the worst order anybody's ever given him, but he still had to follow it no matter what he really thought or what his gut was telling him. He either had to do it, or risk all our lives. I'd rather if he was gonna make a mistake, he made it _that _way and not the _other_ way."

"You sure about that, are you?"

"_Yeah_, I'm sure!" Now Carter was bristling under the repeated challenge to his firmly-held opinion on the matter. "The colonel had a rotten decision to make, it would have been rotten _either _way, but he did what he had to do to protect _us_, even though he hated it, even though he knew when we found out we'd probably be mad at him."

"Officers don't care if you're mad at 'em… most of 'em like it better that way if you ask me."

"Andrew's right," Kinch found himself agreeing. It was sometimes difficult to agree with Carter… but it could be even _more _difficult to agree with Newkirk, who was well-known for shooting his mouth off without bothering to engage his brain, like right now for example. This time Carter _was _right. He had spoken from his heart, not his head… and with Carter, the heart often worked better than the head did. "I can't honestly say that I would have done things any differently if it had been _my_ call. Can you?"

"You're crackers, you are."

"So, _Colonel_ Newkirk would have just ignored all the intelligence coming from a trusted source, and all the _other_ evidence that something was wrong, and kept going on your merry way just because you were so cock-sure you were right… the heck with the ambush, the heck with what happened to DuBois, the heck with everything and everybody except your own ego." Kinch shook his head. "I never want to be a part of _that _outfit, Newkirk."

"Being an officer is a terrible job," LeBeau shook his head thoughtfully. "The _colonel _did what he had to do."

Newkirk let out another puff of cigar smoke. "Well, I never…"

"I sure hope not," Kinch nodded. "We're _all _safer that way."

"_Vive le Colonel_," LeBeau murmured.


	16. Chapter 16

"He's in a foul mood today, I'll warn you," the young MP outside the cell block said to Simon as he signed in.

"Who?" Simon inquired, as if he didn't already know.

"The old general, that's who. Miserable coot on his best days; today I don't know what. He can't stand that General Schmidt, y'know. Saw him this morning; really put him off."

"Well, I suppose that's too bad for him." Simon lifted the dinner tray as the MP unlocked the door. "We're not running the Savoy, and he can't choose his flatmates."

"What do you want?" Biedenbender bellowed as soon as the heavy metal door of his cell swung open.

"I've brought your dinner, sir."

"You expect me to eat _that_? Take it away!"

"Sorry, sir… Geneva Convention… you must be provided with healthful, sustaining food."

"So then why do you bring me things pigs would walk away from?"

Simon glanced at the MP who was already backing out the door. "I don't suppose… would you mind staying?"

The MP laughed. "You're on your own, mate; I got me own work to do. I warned you. Luck."

"Thanks a lot."

He waited until the outer door had closed, and they both heard the MP's steps moving down the corridor, then Simon set the tray of food down on the side table and inclined respectfully towards the general. "I think that was effective."

"It would seem so," the general replied in his normal tone of voice. "I confess, though, I was not exaggerating about that plate of food… it's repulsive."

"My apologies… but I have some good news for you that might help."

"Really?"

"Hogan contacted me to report that he identified his 'traitor'."

"Indeed?"

"Yes… apparently he decided it was Corporal Newkirk."

"And will he act on that?"

"As a matter of fact, he already has." Simon couldn't contain a smug, self-satisfied smile. "He shot the corporal yesterday."

"He _shot…_" Then Biedenbender cut himself off, shaking his head. "I find that very difficult to believe."

"So did I… which is why I contacted Colonel Klink directly, telling him I was with General Burkhalter's office in Berlin. The fool's completely frantic; he hasn't seen Newkirk since a roll call a couple of days ago and there's absolutely no doubt whatsoever that he is, as Klink puts it, 'missing' from camp. In this case, I'd say the 'missing' will be permanent, although Klink hasn't accepted that yet… he has every available man out in the woods searching for Newkirk."

_Newkirk_, the general mused. Yes… he remembered the Englishman who had assaulted him as he'd boarded his plane that night outside Stalag 13, thrown him to the floor, shoved a knee into his back, and then told the general to let him know if there was anything he could do to make his flight more pleasant. Good choice. If he himself had been asked to pick one of Hogan's men to dispose of, Newkirk would have been the top contender.

"There's more," Simon added. "While I was speaking with Hogan on the radio, his remaining men surprised him in the tunnel… they sounded very upset indeed, accusing him of all sorts of ungentlemanly acts. In the midst of their argument, the radio suddenly went dead." Again he smiled. "I can't be certain, but Hogan may have gone dead as well."

The general's face took on the closest thing to a smile as it had in quite some time. "I believe I find my appetite returning."

oo 0 oo

Hogan knocked on the door of General Gaines' office and waited for the instruction to enter. When it came, he opened the heavy oak door and crossed the ornate paneled room to the general's desk, stopped, and saluted. "Colonel Hogan reporting, sir."

Gaines, a white-haired, slightly grizzled veteran of the previous war, got to his feet and returned the salute. "Ah, Hogan… I'd like to say it's good to see you, but obviously with circumstances being what they are…"

"I'm hopeful we can turn that around now that I've arrived, sir."

"Yes, of course. I've done as you asked… Black Sheep has no idea you're in London. Actually, no one does, except me and the pilot who brought you here… and before you ask if he can be trusted beyond reproach, he's my son-in-law."

"I appreciate that consideration, sir."

"Don't know as I can trust him with my daughter, but for anything else he's the man for the job."

With little time to listen to family stories, Hogan forged ahead as briskly as he dared. "Do we know where Black Sheep is at the moment?"

"As I indicated to you and your lads when we spoke over the wireless, he also performs duties at Wormwood Scrubs. A trusted man… well, that is, up to now… and has contact with several high-ranking prisoners, including General Gerhard Biedenbender… who I believe you're acquainted with."

That was putting it mildly. "Yes, sir," Hogan replied stiffly. "The general and I… well, I suppose you could say we faced off once, and I came out ahead."

"Indeed. Well, Black Sheep… Simon Knatchbull-Quimby… arrived this morning at Wormwood Scrubs for his scheduled shift. My people tell me he left there about ten minutes ago, and he's likely on the way back to his radio post at Woodlands Park House."

"So he was with Biedenbender today." It wasn't a question. It didn't have to be.

"Yes. Brought him his dinner, in fact."

Hogan didn't even have to wonder what they might have discussed over the general's helping of kidney pie. They _had_ to be in on this one together. It was too much of a coincidence. Biedenbender would have known exactly which of Hogan's buttons to push, and Black Sheep a.k.a. Knatchbull-Quimby had done the pushing. Things had really been going their way up to now. Newkirk 'dead', Hogan disgraced, the Stalag 13 operation in serious jeopardy, along with the lives of his remaining men. This had been a bang-up day for the pair of them, all right. So far.

"Where would be the best place to intercept Black Sheep?"

"Well, we could wait until he returns to Cobham…"

'Wait' wasn't exactly in Hogan's plans if he could help it; he wanted to move on this _now. _"I'd rather take him out of the game sooner than later, if it's possible."

"Yes… understand. Pity he's already left Wormwood Scrubs; what better place to capture someone than a prison? But, you did say you wanted to be in on this personally… I've no argument with that; you've been put through the wringer on this one and if you want to see to him yourself I've no objections. Give you all the help I can." Gaines turned to consult the map of London on the wall. "He's a chap of rather regular habits, disciplined, punctual, all that. Takes the train to and from Waterloo Station. I suppose we might intercept him there."

Hogan frowned thoughtfully. "There'll be a lot of people in that station at this time of day."

"I agree. Better perhaps to catch him somewhere we've got a bit more elbow room. I've all the men you'll need. And I can guarantee you a front-row seat for the capture… I know that's what you've come all this way for."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"We'll get this bad apple out of the barrel, Hogan, and what's more we'll also get everything he knows out of him. No telling how many other operations he's been mucking about with besides yours… by the by, any word yet on DuBois or those two other missing French agents?"

"No, sir," he replied quietly. He was beginning to accept the likelihood that Tiger was dead; he hadn't really let it sink in yet, but he'd been realistic enough to stop pushing the thought out of his mind every time it occurred to him. That was one of the realities of war: some lived, some died.

Black Sheep's name was now at the top of the "die" column, in Hogan's own handwriting.

Gaines studied the colonel's face for a few moments. Dreadful business. Rumor had it that Hogan and the young French agent had been close. "Well, then… we've got work to do."


	17. Chapter 17

Simon Knatchbull-Quimby exited the Westminster Bridge Underground station to a beautiful autumn day, but he barely noticed. The air raid two nights earlier had damaged the tracks under the Thames between Westminster and Waterloo Station, and he was going to have to walk all the way across the bridge to reach Waterloo and the train back to Cobham. Blasted inconvenience… the German side of him was geared towards the efficient and punctual, and any waste of his time annoyed him, even if it was the Fatherland itself that had caused the inconvenience.

The bells in the clock tower above the Palace of Westminster chimed the series of strikes that indicated the three-quarter-hour; it was nearly noon. _That _monstrosity was what the Luftwaffe should be aiming for next, in his opinion. They'd nicked it once and taken a bit off the top, but the damn thing was still running. If he hurried, and if no other equipment delays arose to inconvenience him, he would be on the 12:20 train to Cobham and back at his radio desk at Woodlands Park House by half past one.

Perhaps there would be some contact with Colonel Hogan today… that is, if he were still alive. That thought did lift his spirits as he started across the bridge towards Waterloo Station. Hogan's Stalag 13 operation was as good as finished; in short order the escape center would be exposed, Hogan and his remaining men would be on their way to the gallows as enemy spies, and as for that ridiculous Colonel Klink, he would be fitted for snowshoes… which he would probably need for all of five minutes before his tour of duty at the Russian Front would end most unpleasantly. That is, unless his superiors were inclined to save some time and just send him to the hangman along with Hogan.

There wasn't much traffic on the Westminster Bridge… odd, at the noon hour on a weekday. No air raid siren had sounded. There was a group of soldiers on the bridge at the end of the sidewalk on the south bank of the Thames, but there couldn't have been any planes coming in, because they weren't looking skyward. They were looking…

… at _him_.

Just as the realization came to him, and he just as quickly dismissed it as not possible, the group of four wardens moved as one to start across the bridge in his direction. Their eyes never wavered; they were indeed looking directly at him.

Did they know? _How _could they know? No, it wasn't possible… a disturbing coincidence; that was all. They couldn't possibly know. However, just to be on the safe side, Simon turned around and started back in the direction from which he'd come. He could catch a later train, perhaps from Victoria Station instead of Waterloo.

Behind him, on the north bank of the Thames, was another group of wardens. One of them pointed at him.

_No_.

Both groups of uniformed men began walking… walking, not running… towards the center of the bridge, where Simon stood on the sidewalk like a stone, looking at first the south group and then the north, not knowing what to do. If there was any chance that they _didn't_ know he was a double agent and a traitor, he could easily give himself away by panicking.

"No…" This time he was aware that he had actually said, not just thought, the single word. It hung in the cold, damp air, ringing in his ears. They _did _know. They had come for him.

He sprinted to the rail, and his own footsteps seemed inordinately loud, his hard leather soles pounding on the pavement. From behind him he then heard a lot _more _of those sounds, this time heavy boots on the roadway, and they were running now… coming closer. They knew _exactly_ who and what he was, and the moment they had their hands on him it would all be over.

The muddy brown water of the Thames churned not far below him. If he jumped, he would have a good chance of making it. Even better: a long, narrow, flat-topped barge was gliding very slowly under the bridge directly below him, heading towards the east… towards the sea, and before that a hundred docks, a thousand places to hide if he could only _reach_ one of them. He had only a few seconds to make his choice, and with the sound of the soldiers' boots on the pavement drawing nearer and nearer behind him, he made his decision: he vaulted over the rail and dropped towards the deck of the barge.

The huge coil of rope he landed on broke his fall, and flexing his knees to cushion the landing took care of the rest… mussed, a bit shaken, but still very much in one piece, he got to his feet and scrambled towards the bow rail. The barge was passing not too far from the north bank; he judged it to be no more than forty feet. There were some smaller boats tied up at the wharves; he could board one of those, perhaps find a change of clothes, make himself scarce, disappear.

From behind him came a voice. "You'll never make it."

He laughed… he couldn't believe he was able to under these circumstances, but he did. "Of _course _I can make it; it's no more than a few yards!"

"I _guarantee _you won't make it."

Simon bent and pulled off his left shoe, preparing for a swim. "It's not your concern!"

"Oh yes it is."

_That voice_. Simon twisted around like a top as the realization struck him, and found himself face to face with Colonel Robert Hogan, standing on the deck with a semi-automatic pistol trained on him. There was no way Hogan could miss, not at that distance. His options were limited: try for the water and get shot, or stand here and get shot. He didn't suppose it mattered much to Hogan one way or the other. "What are you waiting for, Hogan?" he demanded.

"I promised myself I'd enjoy your trial… I'd rather not break a promise. But it's up to you… if you want to jump for it, I'm willing to skip the trial and finish it right here."

Simon raised a shaking hand and pointed a finger at Hogan. He had enough left in him for one more strike. "You… _you_, Colonel Hogan, are a murderer…" He smiled as he said it. All right, Hogan had him, and his fate was sealed. He accepted that. He'd done his job for the Fatherland and he could die with dignity. "Is that the gun you used to kill Newkirk? How does it feel? You murdered one of your own men."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "Did I?"

"You killed Newkirk! You thought he was a traitor… you _shot_ him… the Dusseldorf River!"

"Oh, _that… _yeah, that was quite the little radio play we did for you the other night. Did you like it? I mean, we're not the Mercury Players, but I thought we did a pretty good job of putting one over on our audience… of _one._"

"A… a _play_…?" he stammered.

"Matter of fact, Newkirk wrote it. I'll tell him you enjoyed his work; I'm sure he'll be happy to hear it."

"That can't _be_!" Even as Simon screamed those words at the damnably calm and controlled Hogan, he knew it _had_ to be. He'd been set up. The whole thing had been in Hogan's hands all along. Those sentries on the bridge. This barge. _Everything._

Behind them in the clock tower, Westminster chimes leading up to the hour began, then the bell popularly known as Big Ben began to strike, once for each hour. It was exactly twelve o'clock. And Simon Knatchbull-Quimby was not going to make his 12:20 train from Waterloo.

oo 0 oo

General Biedenbender watched the spot on the wall where the rays of the rising sun always hit first in the mornings… those few when the sun actually _shone_. Nothing yet. Two days ago they had put him in this new cell that had a small, high, barred window that faced the courtyard. The other three walls of his new cell were nothing but heavy iron bars, completely exposed, no privacy. This was not a good location for one other overwhelming reason. Not at this time of day.

The solid steel door to the outer cellblock clanked open. He looked up. The usual guard carrying his breakfast tray had an extra MP with him this morning, and also someone else… someone Biedenbender had not seen for two years, and had often hoped never to lay eyes on again. On this, of all mornings. If there was a God, he was most assuredly not German.

"General," Hogan said simply.

"Hogan."

There was the sound of some activity outside in the courtyard… not much, just some footsteps. It always started like that.

"Nice try." There was more Hogan wanted to say, a _lot _more, but he was determined to restrain himself. "It was close. You almost cost us our operation. And the life of one of my men."

"Almost," Biedenbender nodded calmly.

"But 'close' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

There were voices out in the courtyard now, barking out instructions that weren't quite audible from inside the cell block.

"Well… perhaps next time," the general said smoothly. "Tell me, Hogan… how do your men feel about you now? Maybe they don't think you're quite so much of a hero now that you've let them down, eh?"

The guard unlocked the cell with one hand, then stepped inside to set the breakfast tray down on the small table. Hogan took one almost-unconscious step towards the open door, but the young MP standing at his side spoke up. "Begging your pardon, sir… if you don't mind…?"

Hogan nodded and took two steps backward. _Almost lost it there, fella_. He'd very nearly not been granted permission to come here at all; it was only a personal intervention by General Gaines that had done the trick. Even then the permission had been granted only after the MP's presence had been agreed upon. They were more than a little afraid of what Hogan might do to Biedenbender if he got his hands on the man… as well they _should _be. But he was needed back at Stalag 13, not locked up in the cell right next door awaiting his own court martial.

The guard who had delivered the breakfast tray moved back outside the cell, closed and locked the barred door behind him. The MP standing beside Hogan visibly relaxed once the physical barrier was back in place between the two officers.

The anticipated ray of first light touched the spot high on the wall. It _would _be a rare sunny day today… that figured. The voice outside was perfectly loud and strong this time; all three words were clear as a bell.

"Ready! Aim! _Fire!_"

The loud report of multiple simultaneous rifle shots. Then silence.

Hogan nodded. "Sounds like Black Sheep just got put out to pasture."

It was a shame, Biedenbender thought to himself. The young man hadn't been a friend, but he _had_ been an ally; a rather formidable, quite boldly brilliant soldier of the Third Reich with a bright future in their scheme for world domination. In two hours he would be cold in the ground. _Schade._

"I tried to get _your _ticket punched too," Hogan added.

"I'm sure you did."

"You can be real glad the Allied High Command won't let me get my hands on you, General, because I'd like to take you apart with my bare hands and drop all the pieces down different sewers. But they want to save you for a possible prisoner exchange… they think you're more valuable that way. Actually, I kinda hope they _do _trade you; I don't think you'd last ten minutes back in the Fatherland, since they think you're nothing but a turncoat bum who bombed his own refinery."

Thanks to Hogan, that was quite true. Whether he stayed here or they sent him back to Germany, Biedenbender knew he would be in hell. The only way to save any face at all in this situation was to remain completely calm, to show no reaction, to resist giving his enemy any satisfaction. "As you say."

"Well, I gotta be going… bridges to mine, trains to blow up, you know how it goes. Enjoy your breakfast."

"_Danke_."

"I hope you choke on it." Hogan turned and left the cell block, followed closely by the MP who was already wondering what exactly would be in the report he would end up having to write on this encounter. General Gaines would want to know everything that had been said; he'd been quite clear on that. Was there a hyphen in _hand grenades_?

Biedenbender had never felt less like having a meal. He sat down on the edge of his cot and regarded the plate of grilled bread, tomatoes and baked beans with empty-eyed apathy. Would there _be_ a next time, as he had just suggested might be the case, or had Hogan really had the last word?

Down the corridor, walking past the other high-security cells towards the exit, he could hear the American officer's footsteps retreating. Then they stopped. That voice… that damnable voice… said three more words. "Hiya, General Schmidt!"

Schmidt's startled scream echoed all the way through the cell block. "_Hogan!_ _No!_"

There would be more nightmares tonight, Biedenbender sighed. Loud ones. Maybe Knatchbull-Quimby had been the lucky one at that. This was no way for a career military man to spend a perfectly good war.

oo 0 oo

Hogan strode purposefully down the wide corridor at SOE headquarters in Whitehall, headed to the car he knew was waiting for him at the curb to take him to the airfield for his flight back to Germany. This time he really felt like he'd been away too long. Under normal circumstances his occasional short trips to London were no big deal; he knew the boys would keep the home fires burning and have everything well in hand until he returned.

This time… well, he wasn't so sure _what _might be going on back at camp. Or even if they'd be glad when he got back.

One of the heavy ornate oak doors lining the corridor opened as he passed, and General Gaines's voice called to him. "Ah, Hogan, glad I caught you."

Hogan saluted and Gaines returned it. "Just on my way to the airfield, sir."

"Yes, I know. That can wait. I need a word before you go." The general eyed him meaningfully. "Urgently."

That settled that; Hogan knew he could forget about that car that was waiting. Oh, it would keep waiting, no doubt… but whether or not he'd be able to take off from the airfield on schedule was now seriously in question. "Yes, sir…"

"I wouldn't keep you if it weren't important, old boy. It's about your command."

This couldn't be anything good. With a disturbing feeling of impending doom, Hogan followed his superior into the inner suite of offices.

oo 0 oo

It had been a long day, and it wasn't over yet. There was nothing General Gaines' secretary wanted more than to get home to her own flat, take her shoes off, and sit in front of the radio for a while before falling asleep. But instead, she entered the inner office in response to the intercom's buzz. "You have something to dictate, sir?"

"Just a short memo, Lieutenant."

She took her usual seat in front of his massive desk and readied her pencil and steno pad. "Go ahead, sir."

"Memo to all Allied airfields sending planes into the Hammelburg vicinity… scouts, fighters, bombers, everything. Instruct all personnel that in the event their aircraft is brought down, they should not attempt to reach the escape center at Stalag 13. Until further notice, the operation there is out of service. Instead, downed flyers should proceed directly to the first stop on the escape route where they'll receive assistance and further instructions."

The lieutenant raised her eyes from her pad. "I'm not sure I understand, sir."

"You heard me correctly, Lieutenant. The Stalag 13 escape center is out of commission indefinitely." He clasped his hands pensively. "Possibly permanently."


	18. Chapter 18

Home again. More or less.

As Hogan unfastened his harness and began to gather up his parachute in the cold, moonlit clearing where he'd just landed, he realized how much he missed simple things like taxicabs… he hadn't really appreciated the good old-fashioned way of getting from Point A to Point B before this war, and his few hours in London had reminded him how pleasant it could be to make a journey where you didn't have to jump out of a plane going a hundred and fifty miles an hour, land with a bone-jarring thud, then run for your life before any unfriendlies spotted your chute.

A sudden nearby rustling in the bushes had him reaching automatically for his sidearm. _C'mon, gimme a break; I just __got__ here…!_

"It's only us, Colonel." Carter's voice coming out of the almost total darkness had never been so welcome.

"We couldn't wait," Kinch's added as the four black-garbed prisoners stepped out of the surrounding woods and into the colonel's view. "What happened with Biedenbender and Black Sheep?"

Should he tell them the rest of it too… what had happened in General Gaines' office? Hogan decided that part of his trip would be best kept for when they got back to camp. It wasn't going to be easy to explain; he'd need more time than this location afforded him. "Biedenbender's locked up good and tight this time, and nobody without a U-84 security clearance is allowed to so much as bring him a glass of water. As for Black Sheep… well, I wanted to get him a 21-gun salute, but it turned out they only needed four to give him a nice send-off."

"Good enough for the likes of 'im," Newkirk agreed. It might have been a coincidence… or not… that his eyes followed the colonel's pistol as Hogan replaced it in the pocket of his flight jacket. As soon as it was out of his commanding officer's hand, the Englishman visibly relaxed. That was the long and the short of Peter Newkirk… long on memory, short on trust. Those qualities had kept him alive as a boy on the dangerous streets of East London, and so far they hadn't steered him wrong here in Germany either… he wasn't likely to change.

"We have some very good news for you, _colonel_," LeBeau put in. "We finally heard from DuBois… Tiger's alive, and she will be all right; she's recovering in a safe-house near Dusseldorf."

Of all the things that had gone right in the past twenty-four long hours, that took the cake. "That's great news," Hogan smiled. "I miss anything else?"

"Only Klink's nervous breakdown," Kinch chuckled. "With him thinking you _and _Newkirk have escaped, he's jumpier than a cat on a hot stove. He'd be tearing his hair out if he had any."

"General Burkhalter moved into his quarters yesterday," LeBeau added. "He says he's going to stay until both of you are recaptured."

"And he's brought his sister, _Gnädege_ _Frau_ Frankenstein, with 'im," Newkirk concluded. "This might be ol' Klink's darkest day."

"Gee, I'm sorry I missed it."

"We'd best get back to camp sharpish; these woods are crawlin' with extra guards, not to mention the sentries at the railway tunnel."

"We still need to take that tunnel out."

"You gotta be kidding," Kinch countered… all the while knowing very well that the colonel never kidded about vital German supply venues. "We took a look at it last night from a hillside a half-mile away, and even _that _was too close for comfort. They've got every spare Kraut in this part of the country out there, heavily armed and just waiting for somebody to make a try for that tunnel. They're taking no chances."

"Let's stop by on the way home anyway… suddenly I'm feeling lucky."

oo 0 oo

Any feelings of luck the colonel might have felt at the news that Tiger was safe faded considerably as the five men crouched on the wooded hillside above the rail tunnel, taking turns with the pair of binoculars they had brought along to spot the colonel's mid-air arrival.

"Okay, I believe you," Hogan nodded, passing the glasses over to Kinch. "I haven't seen that many Germans in one place since the last propaganda newsreels from Nuremburg… maybe not even _then._"

Kinch had been in the very same spot the night before and already knew what he was going to see, but he focused the binoculars and studied the situation anyway. "Maybe we can't get anywhere near that tunnel now…"

"_Maybe?_" Newkirk challenged.

"I was gonna say that in a couple of weeks, when things die down a little…"

"I'd like to ask you not to say '_die_ down'… somethin' about those words gives me the willies."

Kinch glared at the British corporal… sometimes the guy just didn't know when to shut up; he could be worse than Carter. "We could come back after the heat's off and blow that tunnel," he managed to get out without being interrupted once more.

"Yeah, we could," Hogan mused. "But that would mean they'd have this supply line wide open for weeks, moving fuel and ammo to the front lines."

"We ain't gonna get anywhere near that railway tunnel," Newkirk stated firmly. "There's no possible way."

"Then let's try an _im_possible way," Hogan suggested.

"How about requesting an air strike?" Kinch asked.

"We could… but there'd be a delay. I want to take care of that tunnel sooner rather than later. Carter, have you got anything on you?"

By 'anything' it was clear he was talking about explosives; the rest of the usual contents of Carter's pockets, the rabbit's foot and baseball cards and so forth, weren't of much interest to anyone except Carter. "Gee… no…" he admitted with an embarrassed, disappointed mumble, casting his eyes toward the ground. "Nothing…"

Hogan's lips pressed together. "Well, it was worth a try."

Oh boy… would the colonel wonder whose side he was on all over again? Andrew wasn't at all sure he was up to that; he hadn't yet recovered from the last time. "I mean, I wasn't expecting us to take a shot at that tunnel tonight, sir…"

"That's okay, Carter, it was an off-the-cuff idea anyway."

"… so all I've got are four magnesium pencils, three flares, two smoke bombs…"

"And a partridge in a pear tree," Newkirk finished for him, finally finding something to smile about. "Attaboy, Andrew."

"_Nothin'_, he says," Kinch beamed with pride. "Carter, you oughta come with your own 'no smoking' sign."

"I still don't see how we can blow up that tunnel," LeBeau said. "Nothing Carter has will explode; what good are flares and smoke bombs?"

Hogan reached for the field glasses he had passed to Kinch, and once they were in his hands again he trained the lenses from the tunnel opening up to a rail spur a hundred yards or so below their position, halfway up the hillside. On the spur was a small train, only an engine and three cars, obviously placed there so a larger and more important train could pass by, either fairly recently or fairly soon. The cars were black and rounded, not squared-off boxcars. He had a pretty good idea what was in them. "Come on… I'll show you."

Thus far, Hogan was the only one aware of the fact that this might be their last mission. If it was, he owed it to the boys to make sure they did it up right.


	19. Chapter 19

The small train apparently didn't merit much concern; there were no guards posted around it, and only the usual two-man engine crew at their posts in the cabin, visible in the yellow glow of the interior lights. Hogan and his men circled back and approached the train from the rear, out of sight of the crew. The colonel shone a flashlight beam on the writing at the base of one of the rounded cars. Anybody who couldn't read the German words stenciled on the side of the car could at least smell the stuff and become quickly clued in to the contents… the three cars were loaded with diesel fuel.

"Here's our bomb," Hogan said simply.

"It may have escaped your notice, sir, but the tunnel is almost a mile _that _way," Newkirk pointed out. "We can set this hunk of metal alight if you want to, but what good's it gonna do us?"

"It's a diversion, right?" LeBeau surmised, rubbing his hands together with eagerness. It was all beginning to sound like it might work, and he didn't even have any idea what the colonel was talking about yet.

"Not exactly. LeBeau, you spent a lot of time at the rail yards in Epernay when you were a kid… you ever learn anything about trains?"

The French corporal gave a shrug. "Not really… they come and they go; that's all I know."

"You didn't learn _anything_?"

Nothing that would be of any help here… mostly what Louis had learned during those long-ago summer days as a boy with his cousin Claude at Epernay had come from a tattered program from the 1928 _Folies __Bergère _that Claude had found in the rubbish bin of their apartment house; the two of them had spent hours in the supply tunnel under the tracks admiring faded photos of showgirls as the local freight trains ground back and forth on the rails above their heads. "I… can't really think of anything…" he stammered.

"So you can't run an engine."

"Of _course _I can't run an engine… maybe I know where the throttle is but that doesn't mean I can drive a train. I was only ten years old when I lived at Epernay… just a boy."

"How about the brake?"

"_Oui, _I saw my father setting the brakes sometimes, when he would take me up into the engine with him."

"How about _releasing _the brake?"

"That's just the same as setting it, only backwards… I think…"

Hogan had that familiar look in his eye again. "Let's find out."

oo 0 oo

This plan had no right to work. But that didn't mean they weren't going to try it.

The first part was no problem: overpower and restrain the two-man crew. The prisoners had overpowered countless Germans over the years they'd spent at Stalag 13 and they could do it in their sleep. Kinch and Newkirk scaled the ladder bolted to the last tanker car, quickly crept the length of the train, then descended a few steps on a shorter ladder and right into the window of the engine compartment. The two unsuspecting railroad men sharing coffee from a thermos bottle never knew what hit them. They were quickly and effectively dispatched, then LeBeau and Hogan tied them to a couple of nearby trees. By the time they came to and managed to free themselves, hopefully it would be too late to save the train and the rest of them would be long gone.

Carter had the delicate part of the operation: perched on top of the tanker car directly behind the engine, he was trying to finagle a fuse that would connect the magnesium pencils and the flares and put them on a crude timer. It wasn't crucial to the second, Hogan had assured him: all he had to do was make sure there was a significant flame by the time the train had rolled down the spur and reached the mouth of the rail tunnel.

"I still don't get it," Newkirk admitted.

"Simple," the colonel assured them all. "LeBeau releases the brake on the engine. There's a downgrade between this spur and the tunnel… it's not that much, but trains are heavy, and once it gathers momentum there won't be any stopping it. The switch between the spur and the main line is between here and the mouth of the tunnel, and the switch almost definitely has to be directed to the main line right now… anything coming at the switch from this spur is almost guaranteed to derail. The fuel in the first car ignites with the flare, then the heat from that fire explodes the sealed second and third cars before they have a chance to put it out… bingo."

"That's twice you've used the word 'almost'," Kinch felt compelled to bring to his attention. "_Almost_ definitely, and _almost_ guaranteed."

"Kinch, nothing in this war is a sure thing… sometimes you have to play the cards you've got and hope the other guy can't beat your hand."

The sergeant lifted an eyebrow. "And if the other guy _can_?"

"You've been spending too much time with Newkirk." The colonel turned his attention to Carter, still crouched on top of the rail car working on his part of the scheme, next to the open filler hole. "How's it going up there, Carter?" he called as loudly as he dared.

"Um… okay, I guess," came the reply.

He _guessed_. Well, they wouldn't be guessing much longer… either it would work, or it wouldn't. "LeBeau?" was the next name Hogan called toward the train.

The Frenchman popped his head out the open doorway of the locomotive. "All the labels are in German. I can't be sure… but I think I know which one is the brake lever."

Great… 'I guess' and 'I think' were the reports he was getting back from his crew. Oh well. Not like they hadn't done _that _before. "Stand by… Carter's almost ready."

With a sigh heavy enough to puff out his cheeks, taking one last glance at his handiwork, Carter signaled to the others on the ground. "All set, colonel… best I can do with what I got."

"Okay, get down here on the double. LeBeau, get ready to disengage that brake on my signal… then jump out before the train picks up speed."

Louis eyed the ground wistfully. It looked very far away from the height of the engine compartment. Leaping from a moving train wasn't his idea of a good plan, but it was the only one they had. This would be a great story to tell Cousin Claude when he got home… _if _he survived. His thoughts strayed to Carter's improvised sparking device, the one he'd made up on the fly with only the rudimentary elements he'd happened to have on him that might well go off earlier than anticipated… then he thought of those hundreds of gallons of flammable diesel fuel right behind him. "Believe me, I will not wait a second longer than I have to."

Carter was down the ladder in seconds. "I figure there's about two and a half, three minutes before the flare-up."

"Great… if we've figured it right, that should be just about perfect, and we should get our barbecue. _Go, _LeBeau!"

Louis grasped the trigger-release lever on the shaft next to the engineer's station with both hands, squeezed hard, and pushed forward to disengage the mechanism.

The train didn't budge.

_Maybe that was the clutch,_ flashed through his mind… _mon dieu, _what he wouldn't give for just five minutes back in the Epernay rail yard to see where he had gone wrong; he wouldn't even _think _about girlie pictures, not again, not _ever, _if only this train would start to _move_…

A sudden squealing, grinding noise reached his ears, over and above the sound of his own blood pounding, and the train lurched forward, just enough to throw him off balance and make him grab for a hand-hold. It _was _moving. The slope wasn't especially steep, but it was enough to allow gravity to step in and do its work over the mile from here to the tunnel. The train's weight and momentum would take care of the rest.

"Louis, _jump!_"

That sound got through to him too… it was the colonel and the others, down on solid ground, reminding him that his part of the operation wasn't yet _quite _over… he still had to get himself out of it alive, and there was a ticking timebomb attached to the fuel cars right behind him. He regained his balance and scurried towards the sliding door, deliberately left open for a quick escape, stopped at the threshold, and looked down.

Bad idea. The ground was _moving_ now, and now it looked even farther away than it had a minute ago. Hogan, Carter, Newkirk and Kinch were all trotting alongside the engine, yelling louder than they probably should have been and beckoning him to jump, _now, _before the train got going any faster. This would be the last time _he _would mention having any specialized skills, Louis vowed silently to himself… he should have learned that on his first day as a private. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and jumped.

Next thing LeBeau knew, he and Carter were practically wrapped around one another and pinwheeling down the gravel bank next to the tracks, Carter yelping "Ow, ow, ow" every time he ended up on the bottom. After a few somersaults they lost their momentum and came to a stop. In seconds, the others had caught up to them and were helping them both to their feet.

"You okay, Louis?" Newkirk asked, giving him a quick brush-off.

"I think so…" LeBeau nodded, gulping in a few good lungfuls of air since Carter had knocked out most of what he'd had in there originally.

"You _done _it, Louis!" Newkirk pointed excitedly down the tracks. "Look at 'er go!"

Even in the fairly dim light of a half-moon, they could see the train heading down the slope, picking up more and more speed. It wasn't flying, but it didn't have to be; it was going plenty fast enough to get it to jump the track at the switch near the tunnel… provided the colonel's earlier figuring was correct.

Carter was also back on his feet, watching the train get farther and farther away. "It looks small already."

"Let's hope it's The Little Engine That Could," Kinch said.

Hogan had the binoculars in hand again and held them steady on the receding train. "I _think_ you can… I _think_ you can… hey, the Krauts see it coming now… I _think_ you can…"

The screech and crash of metal that came a minute later told them that yes, the switch had been set for the main line to run straight through… the train hit the open switch at the spur and jumped the track as anticipated, sending the startled guards fleeing from the mouth of the tunnel.

"No flare…" Carter murmured. "Aw, come _on…_" Still nothing. "_Please_…?"

The night sky lit up in shades of red and orange as Carter's improvised igniter did its work, and set the fuel in the first car alight. Then came an explosion as the fuel in the second car heated to its flash point under compression; then the third car ruptured with a resounding boom. That second explosion sent a hail of dirt and rock raining down from the hillside just above the tunnel's opening, quickly inundating the tracks. No train would be passing through _that _tunnel again real soon.

"I _know _you can…" Hogan smiled as he lowered the binoculars. "Okay, fellas, it's confirmed… there _is _a light at the end of _that_ tunnel. Full roaring flame, in fact."

"Bloody marvelous!" Newkirk exclaimed, for once unable to think of anything discouraging to say.

Then, to everyone's surprise, yet a third explosion… a bonus. "And I'd say there go the original charges you and Carter put under the tracks," Kinch grinned. "Better late than never."

"Unless anybody brought marshmallows," Hogan concluded, "what do you guys say we get back to camp?"

It had been a great operation. Perfect.

Well, if this had been their _last_ one, at least they'd be able to say they'd gone out with a bang.


	20. Chapter 20

The only thing tougher than getting _out_ of Stalag 13 was getting back _in _again. At least, the conventional way.

Kinch, LeBeau and Carter had no problem getting back into the tunnel via the tree stump, but Hogan and Newkirk found the front gate a little less accessible. There wasn't a guard in sight patrolling the wire to open up and let them in. So much for Klink's extra patrols.

"Not exactly Claridge's, is it?" Newkirk asked in a conversational tone, not caring if anybody heard him… getting noticed was the whole point. "At least there they've got a bell for the night porter."

Hogan glanced up at the tower and saw the searchlight making its customary sweep of the barracks. "They're not gonna see anything over there." He stuck a thumb and forefinger in his mouth and gave a strident whistle. "_Hey_!"

Bingo… the searchlight halted its sweep and snapped back towards the gate as the alarm sounded, and also the sound of eager barking from the dogs' enclosure as they sensed a possible outing. The two men lifted their hands in the standard gesture of surrender, squinting as the searchlight finally found – and temporarily blinded – them.

Now they could also hear Schultz's voice from behind them shouting, "Halt or I shoot!"

"Don't we look halted to you?" Newkirk couldn't resist.

The sergeant's gun was at the ready… sort of. Schultz had obviously scooped it up in a big hurry... he'd likely been napping when the alarm had awoken him... and he was holding it with the stock upside down. He'd never be able to reach the trigger that way, and there was only about a fifty percent chance his rifle was loaded in the first place. Nevertheless, he announced with great pride, "I have caught you, you… you _escapers_!"

"You got us, Schultz," Hogan reassured him. "Good work."

The final aspect of the fiasco to descend upon them was Klink, driven at breakneck speed from his quarters by Corporal Langenscheidt via motorcycle sidecar. Langenscheidt barely managed to bring the rickety contraption to a stop before it would have slammed into the red-and-white striped guards' box head-on. "What are you waiting for?" Klink shouted at the guards that finally had come running. "Open the gate!"

That accomplished, the two 'captured' men walked back into the camp under the watchful eye of Schultz, following a couple of paces behind them. "_Herr Kommandant, _I have captured Colonel Hogan and the Englander!" he announced with a salute.

"Oh, really? And where did you find them?" Klink sneered.

"Well, they were…" Schultz looked a bit deflated. "Actually they were standing right here, but I _did _capture them!"

"Your train to the Russian Front can't possibly leave a moment too soon." Klink turned his attention to Hogan. "Well, Colonel Hogan… welcome back."

"Thank you, sir," Hogan smiled amiably. "I've missed you."

"I'm _sure_ you have. And now you can have another ten days restriction to the barracks to miss me all that much longer. As for _this _one…" Now his furious monocled eye was trained on Newkirk. "Ten days solitary confinement in the cooler!"

"Sir, that's hardly fair… I mean, Newkirk _is _turning himself in, and…"

"_Thirty_ days!" Klink slammed his riding crop against the side of his boot for punctuation. "Bread and water!"

"Kommandant, I protest!"

"One more word out of you, Colonel Hogan, and this man will be in the cooler until he is _old _and _gray._" Klink gave that threat a moment to sink in. "Do I make myself understood?"

Newkirk was praying that not even a 'yes sir' would come out of Hogan's mouth at that point. The ha'penny was back in his pocket where it belonged, but he didn't feel very lucky at the moment. Thirty days was a long haul; he had no desire to try for sixty… or worse. To his relief, Hogan gave a grudging, silent nod in Klink's direction, which was enough to stop the meter from running.

"Take them away!" Klink spun on his heel and stalked back towards his office.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Hogan risked a sotto voce aside to Newkirk. "I'm sorry, Newkirk… I wish I could have done more for you."

"I think you done quite enough, thanks… _sir_."

"No talking!" Schultz interjected. It seemed the reminder of his upcoming journey to the Russian Front had put him in as foul a mood as Klink himself was in. He pointed his still-upside-down rifle towards Barracks Two, then gestured to Hogan. "Back to the barracks! March!"

Attempting to look equally menacing with about the same lack of success, Langenscheidt took charge of Newkirk and hustled him off in the direction of the cooler. Even if Hogan and Newkirk had been able to exchange a few more words, there was actually precious little to say under the circumstances.

oo 0 oo

Not that he wasn't pleased… and more than a little relieved… to have his two prisoners back and his perfect record reinstated, Klink pondered as he stalked back across the compound towards his quarters. Not that he was particularly concerned that by next month, if no replacement could be found, he would be here at Stalag 13 without a sergeant of the guard, and Schultz would be on his way to the Eastern Front.

The reason for his bad mood was twofold… and at one point, both reasons had had the surname 'Burkhalter'. The general was in one of his moods again, hinting strongly that Luftwaffe officers needed stability and therefore Klink should be married, and Gertrude was feeling particularly nest-y… and the _last_ place Klink wanted that old buzzard building her nest was in _his _private quarters. Gertrude had insisted on cooking dinner tonight, and there had been no chance of getting out of it… the return of Hogan and Newkirk had delayed the main course for a few minutes and provided a restful break from the slow torture of the forced small-talk over _hors d'oeuvres_, but now he would have to sit down at the table with the two of them and somehow find a way to make it to the end of the meal without offending either of his unwanted guests, or becoming either engaged or demoted. He wasn't sure which one of those eventualities appealed to him less.

"Is everything all right, Wilhelm?" Gertrude inquired the moment he walked in the door.

He hated that she used his first name, especially in his home; the suggestion of intimacy turned his stomach. "Yes, fine, thank you, Frau Linkmeyer."

She smiled… at least he thought it was an attempt at a smile. "Please… _Gertrude_," she insisted. Close up, Klink noted, Frau Linkmeyer actually appeared to be made up of several different species, not just buzzards… her nose was like a hawk's, her teeth like those of a horse, and her eyes when they met his with that piercing _I-want-something_ gaze reminded him of a snake that had once scared him half to death at a Strength Through Joy picnic.

"The guard at the gate called your private line," the general advised him from his seat on the sofa, where he was working on draining a glass of schnapps. It was at least his third. "I understand that both Colonel Hogan and the British corporal have been recaptured."

Yes… his _private line. So_ nice of the general to pick up. "Yes, sir… I'm pleased to report that both prisoners are back in camp, and my perfect no-escape record is once again perfect."

"If I hear that one more time, I may try to escape myself." The general downed the last of the schnapps in his glass and got to his feet, not such an easy task for a tipsy fat man. "Gertrude has been working all evening on this dinner, Klink… I hope you will show her your appreciation."

Not with a marriage proposal, he wouldn't… perhaps a polite 'thank you' after dessert and coffee. "Of course, Herr General."

"Gertrude is an excellent cook, you know."

"Oh, Albert, don't exaggerate," Gertrude said with an unsuccessful attempt at a coquettish giggle, unflattering from a woman of her years. "I was a good wife to Otto, yes, but hardly _excellent._"

"Yes, hardly excellent…" Klink echoed, then was suddenly appalled at the sound of his own voice as he realized he had actually _said _that, not just _thought_ it. "I mean… it must be _hard_ to be as _excellent_ a cook as… as I'm sure you are."

Gertrude seemed willing to let that pass; she couldn't be sure of what she thought she had heard him say the first time. "You tell me what you think, Wilhelm," she said as she set a platter of braised beef in the center of the table. "Be honest… don't let Albert put words in your mouth." She bustled off to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a small ceramic pitcher.

"It smells _wunderbar_," the general assured her, not too shy to be the first one to help himself, rather generously.

Actually, Klink had to admit that it _did _smell good_. _He nodded in sincere agreement as he placed a slice on his own plate, as soon as the general had finished with the serving fork. "I must say, Frau Linkmeyer…"

"_Gertrude_."

"Yes… um… it does smell absolutely delightful."

She passed the pitcher to Klink. "Here is the sauce béarnaise."

"My goodness, you had time to make a sauce béarnaise as well?"

"I did not have to make it; I found a whole jar of it on a shelf in your pantry."

"In _my_ pantry?" he frowned. "I wonder where that came from."

"You live too well, Klink," the general chuckled, his three glasses of schnapps having relaxed him considerably. "Don't try to deny it."

"_Ach_, I've forgotten the bread." Frau Linkmeyer scurried off towards the kitchen again. "You go ahead; don't wait for me."

Courteously, Klink offered the sauce first to the general, then covered his own entrée with it as well. The two of them simultaneously took their first bite. Their eyes grew wide with surprise, then revulsion… it was all either of them could do to actually swallow the morsel. Klink grabbed the red wine from the table and shamelessly took a couple of swigs straight from the bottle to get the taste out of his mouth, while the general hastily gobbled a tablespoonful of pickle relish, the closest thing at hand that had any chance of killing the flavor.

"I may have exaggerated her skills in the kitchen…" Burkhalter choked out after he'd managed to swallow, the first and only time he had offered anything in the way of an apology to his subordinate under any circumstances.

"_Dreadful…_" Klink couldn't keep from uttering, rubbing a napkin across his lips as if it were an eraser. There wasn't a general in the entire _Wehrmacht_ who would have him shot for that, sister or _no _sister.

Gertrude exited the kitchen, all smiles, with the bread basket in hand. "Well? What do you think?"

Klink and Burkhalter looked at one another wordlessly, each willing the other to dare to speak first.


	21. Chapter 21

"Hey, here he is!"

It was a tired-looking but smiling Newkirk who entered the barracks that night exactly thirty days later, sporting heavy stubble, and the rest of the men, most already in whatever they used for pajamas, crowded around him to welcome him home. "How was the cooler?" Carter asked, as LeBeau handed the RAF corporal a cup of steaming hot coffee.

"Better'n the bottom of the Dusseldorf River," Newkirk assured him. "I ain't got no complaints on that score… but I'll be glad to sleep in a more-or-less real bed tonight."

"I don't know who's happier to see you back; us or Klink." Kinch fitted a half-dollar over his left eye to mimic the Kommandant's ever-present monocle. "Corporal Newkirk…" he began in his best tremulous imitation of an overwhelmed Klink, which was pretty darn good, "you have been recaptured… there has _never _been a successful escape from Stalag 13…" He slammed his hand down hard on the table hard enough to rattle the tin cups. "Thirty days in the cooler!"

"Kommandant, blow it out your ear," Newkirk replied, evoking laughter from everyone present. "And one of these days I just might say that to the silly old sod's _real _face."

In his adjoining office, Hogan shrugged into his bathrobe and tied it shut over his pajamas, then stuck his bare feet into his slippers. Well, this was it. Everyone was here again, finally, and they had to talk. And depending on how it went, maybe instead of hitting the sack they would have to spend some time tonight getting ready for some big changes.

When he joined them in the main barracks he saw that Newkirk had Winston in his lap, and was giving the pup the V-for-victory sign… Churchill himself probably wouldn't have responded by chewing eagerly on the corporal's extended fingers, but it was a perfectly logical thing for a puppy to do, and the men were all laughing. "Welcome back," Hogan told Newkirk, perhaps a little tentatively.

"Thanks for leavin' the light on, sir."

Well, that was as good a beginning as any. Since Hogan himself had drawn only ten days' confinement to barracks for his own 'escape', he expected Newkirk to be a little bitter about the harsher punishment Klink had meted out to the corporal, but Newkirk's voice didn't have the hard edge that might have been expected under the circumstances. He'd had plenty of time to think in the cooler... it could have gone either way. Maybe there was a chance after all. "Listen, fellas, now that everybody's here, we all have to talk… I'll leave it up to you; tonight or tomorrow?"

The prisoners exchanged glances, smiles fading. Kinch was the first to speak. "I don't think I could sleep anyway, wondering what was up." Nods and nervous murmurs of agreement filled in around his words.

"Okay…" Hogan took a deep breath and dug his hands into the pockets of his robe. "It's like this…"

Carter, on lookout at the door, suddenly pushed it shut. "Guard comin'… it's Schultz."

LeBeau hurriedly swept Winston out of Newkirk's arms and rushed to deposit him in Hogan's office, then closed the door firmly. "Get Schultz outta here as quick as you can, okay?" Hogan asked.

"Will do," Kinch assured him… fine timing; the colonel had something obviously important to discuss with them and now they'd have to wait until Schultz left to find out what was up. Given everything they'd all been through over the past several weeks, that didn't set too well. The colonel had a real serious look on his face and that couldn't mean anything good. _Now _what was about to drop on them?

They gave it their best shot, but Schultz didn't fall for the old hello-turn-around-goodbye this time; he resisted the crush of back-slapping designed to turn him towards and then back out of the door, and instead forced his way into the center of the room. "What are you hiding…?" he asked, narrowing his round blue eyes in Hogan's direction.

"Hiding? _Us_?"

"_Ja, _you… you are hiding something; what is it, what-what-what-what-what?"

Hogan folded his arms, tipped his head thoughtfully to one side and appeared to be concentrating very hard. "Well, let's see… a dog…"

Schultz looked entirely blank… but that was pretty much par for the course with him. "A… a dog?"

"And a radio," Kinch spoke up helpfully.

"About a mile or so of tunnels," Newkirk chimed in.

"A darkroom, and a _magnifique _wine cellar," LeBeau added, kissing the tips of his gathered fingers in a gesture of enthusiastic approval.

"And a whole bunch of Kraut officer uniforms," Carter finished. "But I don't think we've got anything in your size at the moment, big fella… too bad; you'd make a great Hermann Goering for Trick Or Treat."

"Jolly jokers…" Schultz grumbled. Little did he realize that the prisoners had indeed just given him pretty much a complete inventory of everything they really _had_ been hiding from their captors for the past several years.

"What do you want, Schultz?" Hogan asked. "It's almost time for lights out, and we're all here."

The sergeant looked visibly relieved. "That makes a nice change… _danke._"

"_Bitte._"

"I came to say goodbye."

"You going somewhere?"

Schultz's eyes took on a wide, honestly hurt expression. "You don't remember that I go to the Russian Front…?"

"Oh _that_…"

Before Schultz could look any more heartbroken at the colonel's astonishing lack of concern for his welfare, Hogan motioned to Kinch, who withdrew a folded document from his inside pocket. "Here you go, Schultz… we fixed your transfer; forget it, you're staying here."

From the depths of despair to the pinnacles of ecstasy in three quarters of a second… possibly a new world's record. "I _am_?" he bubbled excitedly. "How did you do…" Then he lost a bit of his enthusiasm. "Never mind… I do_ not _want to know…"

"It was easy, Schultz," Hogan assured him. "We doctored your medical records… pun intended. Take a look."

Schultz was only brave enough to take the briefest of glances at first, then when nothing scared him too badly he forced himself to take a longer look, using both eyes this time. It was true. There was his name… his rank… his serial number… and his weight. From about 1930. "Two hundred and eighty pounds…?" he asked, hardly daring to believe it was true.

"Sure. See, you started at three hundred and thirty. We took the first three and made it into a two… then took the second three and made it an eight… left the zero on the end… you just lost fifty pounds. That puts you at an acceptable weight for your height… and by the way, we also made you three inches taller while we were at it, just to be on the safe side. You're in fighting shape... more or less... and certified for guard duty. Congratulations. This'll be on Klink's desk first thing in the morning."

The boundless joy on the sergeant's face could have illuminated the entire room if the bulb in the overhead fixture had blown out at that very moment. "Colonel Hogan, I do _not _know how to thank you!"

Just _go, _Hogan thought silently… please, Schultz, just _go._

"Why don't you go call your wife and give her the good news?" Carter suggested.

"_Ja, das ist eine gute Idee_!"

"And why don't you go do it _now_?" Newkirk added.

The men all swarmed in to spin Schultz around on his axis and propel him towards the door; this time they managed it and were able to push it shut behind him. LeBeau pressed his back against it and dug his heels into the rough-hewn floor, just in case… a human doorstop. "Okay…" he began a little nervously with a glance towards the colonel. "Let's talk… about what?"

This was not gonna be easy. But the best thing to do was probably to come right out and say it. "General Gaines met with me before I left London," Hogan began. "He asked if I thought we should disband the outfit." The group's loud, confused response of shock and protest ebbed to a dull murmur when Hogan held up his hands for quiet.

"What did you tell him, sir?" Carter asked with a look that said he might not really want to know the answer.

"I told him I didn't know _what _to tell him… that I wanted to hear what you guys had to say about it."

"When he says 'disband'…"

"He means the whole nine yards… blow the tunnel, burn the evidence, everybody out. He says we've done a great job but he's not sure we can keep it up after… well, after what happened. It's my fault. I should've known better."

It had almost come to that on a couple of occasions when the Germans had been breathing a little too heavily down their necks, but it was still a thought none of them really wanted to seriously consider. "Blow the tunnel…?" Carter repeated. "Everything…?"

Hogan nodded. "That's right… the works. "

"You mean we'd be out of a job," Kinch summed up.

"Yeah, but you'd be able to look for another one in Detroit." Hogan nodded when the expressions of disbelief began another crescendo. "This is a special operation and you're all volunteers… you knew that from the start. Instead of pinning medals on you, the Allied High Command thought that sending you home would be a nice, tidy way to say thanks for a job well done."

_Home_. A simple word that meant so many different things to each of them.

Kinch could already picture himself setting up the Christmas tree in his grandmother's front room come December. He remembered exactly where the boxes of ornaments were stored, in the closet under the stairs, right next to the water heater that sometimes dripped a little. It would be due for an overhaul by now… he could take care of that in about an hour. His toolbox was in the back of the same closet, right where he'd left it.

Newkirk thought of the Red Lion Pub, where an empty glass for each of the regulars who'd gone off to war sat on the shelf above the bar, just waiting for the punters to come back home, slide onto a stool, and order up a pint. There was one up there with his name on it. And he could sure use a drink… _real _ale, not that swill the Gerries called 'beer'.

Carter imagined himself on his motorcycle, zipping down the road toward Mary Jane's house, to pick her up for the movies. He'd take her to the drive-in to see something with Betty Grable. They'd have to leave the speaker hooked to the post, since they wouldn't have a window, but that wouldn't matter. He'd get them a Coke at the refreshment stand… just one. He'd pop the cap off with his Boy Scout knife, and they'd stick in two paper straws… and maybe in a while they wouldn't care if they could hear what Betty Grable was saying or not.

LeBeau saw himself pulling the bell chain on his mother's front door in the Marais. He had lost the key years ago, the night his unit had been taken prisoner and the guards in the holding camp had forced him to turn out all his pockets and taken everything he owned… he'd carried nothing of value to anyone except himself, but they'd taken it all anyway, just to hurt him, to leave him empty. How strange to be worried all this time that he wouldn't be able to get back into _Maman's _house… of course she would answer the bell. And give him a new key. After she'd hugged and cried over him for a day or two.

_Well_. Hogan couldn't remember the last time the boys had gone this silent for so long, all at the same time. The faraway looks on their faces… the slight, one-sided smile that pulled at a corner of Newkirk's mouth… and for some reason Carter's lips almost looked to be pursed around an imaginary straw; goodness only knew what was going through _his _imagination at the moment. They were thinking of home, and they were good thoughts. Maybe _that_ was the answer he'd been asking them for, and they just hadn't come out and said it in words yet.

He cleared his throat, and the sound seemed to wake each man from his own private daydream. "So what do you think?" This time nobody seemed to want to be the first to speak, which was something of a rarity. "If you want to talk it over amongst yourselves in private, that's fine. We can take it up again in the morning, and…"

"We're… we're not done here," Kinch ventured a little tentatively. "I mean… the war's not over." He looked to his left, at Carter.

"If we leave, who's gonna keep the escape route going?" Carter asked.

"They'll start up another unit," Hogan replied. "The Allied High Command isn't interested in re-staffing Stalag 13; headquarters thinks it's safer for everybody to start a new escape operation if we close up shop here… start fresh with a new crew. We've attracted a lot of attention from the Gestapo. There's a good chance they'll find our operation sooner or later… we've always known it was possible. You guys have done your jobs and _then _some. Believe me, nobody's talking about giving up…"

"Isn't that what we _are _talking about?" Louis asked. "_Ça, non._" He shook his head firmly, then looked to Newkirk.

_There goes my bloody pint._ "In for a penny, in for a pound…" was what the Englishman managed to mutter in agreement… okay, he'd said it; who was going to demand that he said it with more conviction? That was the best he could do. He supposed that glass would still be up there on the shelf at the Red Lion waiting for him next month… next year… whenever he could walk the streets of London again knowing that the King was on his throne and all was right with the world once more. That pint of ale would taste awfully bitter right now, knowing they hadn't yet seen their mission through to the end.

Hogan was relieved. Maybe, he admitted to himself, even a little surprised. But he had a good team. They worked well together, and not even the likes of Simon Knatchbull-Quimby and General Biedenbender had been able to mess with that… well, not permanently, at least. "Okay…" he nodded. "I guess you know that's what I hoped you'd say. So tomorrow we'll all punch in and get back to work. Business as usual."

Four heads nodded in unison; four voices replied "Yes, sir." And four hearts meant it.

He nodded and allowed himself a smile. "Goodnight, fellas."

"We must be crackers…" Newkirk muttered as Hogan opened the door to enter his office.

"_Les quatre fous_," LeBeau nodded. "They offer us a chance to go home and we say _non, merci; _we'd rather stay in this rat hole."

"Maybe," Kinch put in. "But we did the right thing."

"After all that?" Newkirk asked. "How can we be sure? The colonel suspected us _all _of bein' _traitors_, in case it's slipped your mind already."

"Well…" Carter shrugged. "Like Charlie Chan says… 'suspicion is like rainfall… it falls upon both just and unjust.'"

Newkirk tipped Carter's cap down over his eyes and gave the back of his head a cuff. "I always said you were all wet."

A moment later they were startled to hear the colonel's now-hear-this voice from his office. "I want all you guys in here, on the double!" They only took a brief moment to glance at one another before double-timing it to the doorway. What_ now?_

The colonel stood, arms folded, looking with profound annoyance down at the floor where Winston contentedly chewed on what remained of his left shoe. The leather top was in shreds, the laces completely disintegrated.

"Um…" Newkirk was the only one who could find his voice yet, and for the moment that was the best he could do by way of either explanation or apology. That pint at the Red Lion might yet be within his reach… but he might be drinking it with a dishonorable discharge in his pocket. "I'm sorry, sir…"

Hogan bent down and lifted the puppy… he had a little trouble disengaging the pup's teeth from what was left of the shoe. "Look at this, willya? The whole shoe… the heel…" He plucked at the small white strip that dangled from Winston's whiskers and held it up so they could see it, damp and shredded but still vaguely recognizable as paper. "The _code_…"

Uh oh. What _was_ the penalty for eating the only copy of an officer's eyes-only code? The men looked at one another with worried expressions. Surely he wouldn't…

Hogan smiled and patted the pup's head affectionately. "_Good_ _dog_," he praised. "What do we need with that, huh? We're better off without it." As if he actually understood the praise, Winston eagerly began licking the colonel's face.

Hogan balled up what little was left of the code and tossed the mangled, sticky scrap into the trash can. From now on, anything London had to say… it could say to _all _of them.

THE END

_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who read; hope you enjoyed it. My special thanks to everyone who took the time to comment; I really appreciate all the input I receive. And extra-special thanks to my beta reader, my dad... a WWII Signal Corps veteran who patiently corrects the mistakes I make about the Army, vintage aircraft, the Boy Scouts, life in the 1940's, and other stuff he knows way more about than I do._


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